Reunion
by yankeebornandbred
Summary: Harry finds out that he has more family than he had thought, but they turn out to be rather odd. Begins Weechester, continues indefinitely. INDEFINITE HIATUS.
1. Chapter 1

**This is a story I started a while back and that I'm only just getting around to posting. This is my second crossover between Harry Potter and Supernatural (unrelated to the first) and I have no idea if this plot bunny is even good or interesting. If it gets positive reception, I'll probably continue (I've only written 6-7 chapters of this length). It isn't my main story, though, so updates will probably be sporadic after the first few chapters.** **Reviews would be great, especially any alerts about grammar/spelling as I didn't check it over carefully before posting and my younger self was significantly worse at writing.**

* * *

 _As he gazed on in horror, her facial muscles contracted. The crimson bloodstain fanned out from her abdomen. Fire burst up and blossomed around her. Still in a state of shock, he managed to grasp his infant son and escape. Tears blinded him as he shoved Sammy into Dean's arms._

 _"Go, Dean," he shouted hoarsely. "Take your brothers outside!"_

 _Confusion and a trace of fear were apparent on the young boy's face, but he immediately tightened his hold on Sam and hurried down the stairs. Without waiting to confirm their exit, John sprinted back into Sam's room, hoping against all hope that he could save his wife. It was too late. The flames roared and devoured the wooden panels, crawling at alarming speeds over the rest of the room. He could no longer even see her body for the smoke. The window shattered, spraying glass shards through the hot air. He ran for his life, only just making it out the door as an explosion shook the little house._

 _Dean stood in the middle of the lawn, clearly distressed but still clutching his young brother tightly to his chest. John looked wildly about for his second son._

 _"Luke! Luke, where are you?" he shouted. He whirled around to face Dean. "Where's Luke, Dean? I told you to take him out!"_

 _Dean only stared at him with a dazed expression on his face. John hugged his sons to him, tears running unchecked down his face._

 _"Oh, God," he sobbed. "No."_

* * *

The sleeping young boy was placed gently on the doorstep of the small cottage. His deliverer straightened, staring at the child with an unreadable expression in his eyes. He then disappeared without a sound.

The boy woke up abruptly, as though the disappearance of his rescuer had somehow alerted him. He blinked at the unfamiliar surroundings.

"Mommy?"

Nothing happened. The night air was still and quiet.

"Dean?"

A light turned on in the window above him. A few moments later, the front door opened. Light streamed onto the step as a young man peered out. He immediately caught sight of the boy and a sleepy grin spread over his face.

"Lily! Come look."

A young woman joined him.

"Oh, the poor boy," she exclaimed. kneeling down beside him and scooping him into her arms. "Where could he have come from?"

The man watched her play with the child, scratching the back of his head absently.

"Well," he said, an amused expression playing on his face. "I think I can guess where he's going to stay. Let's go back to sleep. We can figure this out in the morning."

The door shut behind them. The one who had brought the boy watched it close with satisfaction before disappearing once more.

* * *

Harry pushed back his shock of dark hair with thin, nervous fingers. He stared at his reflection in the mirror, turning his head this way and that. Then he examined the ragged picture he held. There was a slight resemblance in the jawline... or was it merely his imagination?

"What's taking so long, Potter?"

Harry pushed the photo hurriedly in his trouser pocket, and only just in time. The door swung open with a crash, and a scowling older boy peered in. He smiled, but with more malice than mirth.

"What have we here? Staring at yourself in the mirror again? Who do you think you are, staying in here past your allotted time, you little pipsqueak?"

"I can't take a shower in less than two minutes," Harry said defiantly, standing his ground. All he received for his rebellion was a heavy clout over the head. He tumbled to the ground, seeing stars.

"Oh, are you shortsighted, Potter? I didn't know that."

Harry squinted upward, and the pit of his stomach plummetted. He scrambled to his feet.

"Give that back, Matthew."

He grabbed for the object, but the other boy merely held it higher, a spiteful grin playing on his rather handsome face.

"Is this something important?" he taunted. In a quick, fluid movement, his fingers snapped the fragile frame of the glasses. He threw them into the toilet, flushed it, and left the bathroom. Harry lunged after him, slamming into his back with a heavy thud. He was able to throw in one punch before Matthew's cronies were drawn out of their stupor and closed in on him. Matthew's nose was spurting blood, Harry noted with satisfaction... or as much satisfaction as he could gather when he was being bruised and bloodied by a pack of boys, all of whom were at least two or three years older than him.

Harry vaguely heard a yell, "All right, that's enough! Let's go!"

The clatter of feet against the floorboards faded. Harry coughed and sat up painfully. Wincing, he fingered his side. There would be purple bruises there tomorrow, without a doubt. His nose had also started bleeding. He pressed one of the cleaner edges of his shirt to it to stem the flow.

When he entered into his bedroom, his roommate, George, looked up for a brief moment before turning back to his book. Harry had not expected any sort of concern to be exhibited towards him, but he thought George might have shown a bit more of a reaction. He resentfully limped to his side of the room, slowly and carefully lying down on his cot to mull over his loss.

A heavy weight had settled in his stomach. The glasses had belonged to his father. He had had only two precious remnants of his parents, and now one was gone. He fingered the tattered edges of the photo, then deliberately took it out. He placed it in his safe box that he had hidden under his mattress.

He decided it was better that the glasses had been his father's rather than his. Fortunately his vision was nearly perfect. At least, it had been two years ago when an eye doctor had examined the children at the foster home. If they had been his, he would have been stumbling about half blind by now. However, he couldn't keep a small sigh from escaping. To comfort himself, he closed his eyes and thought of the single memory he had of his mother.

 _Warm, comforting arms were wrapped around him. They smelt of lavender and a hint of cool mint. He had felt safe, and had snuggled more deeply into them. A quiet voice sang to him._

 _"Hey, Jude, don't make it bad. Take a sad song, and make it better. Remember to let her into your heart, then you can start to make it better."_

 _Light hair fell like a curtain around his drowsy eyes, and soft, cool lips pressed against his forehead._

 _"I love you, my baby boy."_

* * *

 **Thanks for reading! Please review!**


	2. Chapter 2

**As I said, I wrote up at least 6-7 chapters, so I'm uploading another today. The story's moving a bit quickly, but it'll all be explained.**

* * *

Harry was jostled into consciousness. An ache spread throughout his body, and he held back a groan.

"Get up, Potter," George was saying gruffly. "It's time for breakfast."

Harry sat up painfully and grumpily. Matthew generally tried to coerce him into giving him most of his breakfast. Harry was able to eat a reasonable amount, but it was irking to have the more palatable food taken from him.

He pulled on the simplest clothes he could find, a large gray t-shirt and dark jeans, and slowly made his way to the kitchen. It was already packed with boys. He took a tray of food and sat down on the far end of the table. It was quieter there.

A rowdy group passed him. He could see Matthew in the middle of it, and hunched over in a half-hearted attempt to be invisible. It was ineffectual. Matthew's hand shot out as he passed and grabbed his roll from his plate.

"Thanks, Potter!" he shouted boisterously.

Harry was left to eat a rubbery hard-boiled egg. He poked it moodily.

A shadow fell across his plate and he started. His foster mother, Mrs. Kensington, was staring at him sympathetically.

"Harry," she said gently. "There are a couple of visitors for you."

Harry pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled. "I'm sorry," he said regretfully. "I don't think you have the name quite right, Mrs. Kensington. I don't know anybody well. Not even at school. Unless..." he was gripped suddenly with fear, "unless it's one of the teachers?"

"No," she reassured him. "It isn't. I believe they said they were friends of your father."

To say that Harry was disturbed was an understatement.

"What do you mean?" he asked in consternation. "Friends of my father? They've waited this long to make contact with me? I'm not sure I really want to meet them."

"You must," the woman said firmly. "Come right along with me."

He followed her, torn between reluctance and exhilaration. Mrs. Kensington led him to her study. Two men were standing in the room. Harry studied them. One was old, and white-haired, and wizened, with a long beard and twinkling blue eyes. The other was younger, probably in his mid-thirties. His hair was a light, sandy brown, already shot with some gray strands. He had a pleasant, sincere face, but looked rather weary. Their clothes looked rather mismatched and ill-fitting.

"Come along, Harry," Mrs. Kensington prompted him, not unkindly. Harry obediently stepped forward.

"Good morning, Harry," said the older man. He held out a hand for him to shake. "My name is Albus Dumbledore."

It was a rather strange name, Harry thought. He shook hands politely.

"Pleased to meet you."

But he wasn't quite sure if he was. The younger man did likewise.

"Hello, Harry," he said quietly. "Remus Lupin."

Harry nodded with a gulp. He felt a little uneasy, meeting strange men, both of whom claimed to have known his late father.

"May we speak to Harry alone?" Dumbledore addressed Mrs. Kensington.

"Of course," she nodded. "I'll be in the office next door if you need me."

She smiled briefly at Harry, who was not quite able to return it. The door closed behind her with a click. The room was silent for several moments.

"So, out of school, eh, Harry?" Lupin said conversationally.

"I'm on holiday," said Harry bluntly.

Lupin nodded.

"I'm sure you're wondering why we never came to see you before," he began. He seemed ill-at-ease. "I'm sorry about that."

Harry cleared his throat. "It's all right."

"But we haven't been idle,' Lupin continued. "There's something very important you need to know."

"What's that?" Harry asked. He felt apprehensive. After all, it could be anything. But he had to confess that he was unprepared for what it was.

"I see no sense in beating around the bush," Lupin said hurriedly. "I'll tell you straight out. You were adopted by James and Lily Potter, Harry. We - that is, Albus and I - have spent the last few years trying to track down your biological family."

"What?" Harry asked, rather stupidly.

Lupin rubbed his forehead. "I'm sorry. This must be quite shocking for you. Let me explain a little more, please. You were not born to James and Lily Potter. They found you on their doorstep when you were about two years old. I promise, we tried every way we could at the time to find out who you were and where you'd come from. It all led to nothing. No one had ever seen you before. We placed advertisements in the Mug... in all the newspapers. There were absolutely no results."

Harry was quiet for a few moments. He was hardly able to absorb this staggering information. "I'm sorry," he said finally. "I can't... I don't... I'm not getting all this. I don't even know you. I've never seen you before. How do I know you aren't lying to me?"

"I can't make you trust us," Lupin admitted. "But I'll give you this photo of your real parents that I was able to dig up. Just think about all this for a bit. If you want, we can come back in a few days and talk about it more. You don't need to act right now."

He handed Harry a square photo. A happy couple smiled at the camera. The man had dark brown hair and dark eyes. His jaw was strong and defined, giving the impression that he was a man with considerable force of character. But it was the woman that caught Harry's eye. A thrill of recognition shot through him. Her face was gentle and her lips smiling and her eyes a deep, brilliant green. Her hair was light blond, long and straight.

Harry sat down abruptly on the nearest chair and bent over the photo.

"I..." he swallowed. "Who are they?"

"Their names are John and Mary Winchester. That's really about all I know about them. They've been moving almost constantly over the past years; that's why it's been so hard for me to track them."

"They have a queer last name," said Harry. "Isn't it an American brand of firearm?"

"Yes, it is actually. The Winchesters are Americans."

Harry closed his eyes.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I'm just having trouble putting together all these bits of information."

"It's quite all right," Lupin assured him. "I would as well, were I in your place."

"So, here's how I understand it," Harry said slowly. "I'm not really a Potter. I'm really an American, and my parents are named John and Mary Winchester. Somehow, I appeared on my par... the Potter's doorstep, and that's really all you know about my history."

"That's right," said Lupin.

"Well, I think you're both bonkers," Harry blurted out. "Not only is this unrealistic, but I'm not about to go traipsing about the world with two strangers. I don't even have any proof besides your own word that you knew my parents. Yes, my parents, because James and Lily Potter really are my parents and I don't believe otherwise."

He rose in his chair angrily.

"Wait, Harry."

Dumbledore spoke for only the second time.

"Something about that photo made you pause for a moment. What was it?"

Irritated, Harry opened his mouth to reply. Dumbledore held up a deprecating hand.

"Take a moment to calm yourself. We're not going to force you to do anything. It would be very helpful if you could tell us, though."

Harry took a deep breath.

"Can you tell us?" Dumbledore asked. His voice was firm; Harry knew that it was more an order than a question. He sat down again.

"The woman," said Harry finally. "I have one memory of my mother. I've always wondered about one little detail. She was singing to me, but then she kind of... she kind of leaned over me, and her hair was blond, it wasn't red. I guess I've always thought I got mixed up because I was so young." He looked up. "But I'm not ready, I can't go anywhere. I need time. It's so boggling. I don't know what to think."

"I know it must be," Lupin said quickly. "Of course we'll give you time. Day after tomorrow sound all right?"

Harry shrugged. "I guess."

They shook hands. Lupin's eyes looked wistful for a brief moment.

"Goodbye, Harry," he said softly. "Do think it through."

"All right," said Harry.

* * *

 **Review, please review!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Enjoy the new chapter. Sorry, it's a bit short.**

* * *

As he was walking down the long corridor back to his room, Harry realized that he was still holding the photo that Lupin had given him. He held up to the cool sunlight that streamed through the windows. He could certainly see a resemblance between their faces and his. He had tried so many times to compare his features to those of James and Lily. Now he could see that most of what he thought he had found had probably been fabricated by a hopeful mind.

Harry shook his head quickly. No, he could not assume that whatever the two men had said was true. Deep down inside, he knew that he was believing a lot more of their story than he should. To be honest with himself, he knew that it was because a wild hope had sprung up in his heart. Perhaps he was not alone in the world after all. Perhaps he had a father and a mother. He could escape this foster h... he couldn't call it a home, although he did have some moderately pleasant memories. It was more of a habitation, and had been nice until Matthew had arrived and formed a gang of bullies. Mrs. Kensington was kind-hearted but stern. The establishment did not have the warmth and comfort that he imagined a home would have, and that he secretly yearned for.

He closed his bedroom door behind him, not wanting to be disturbed. Laying the two photographs side-by-side, he proceeded to examine them once again, and was surprised by the similarities between the couples. Both of the women had green eyes, and Harry favored his father in hair color. This development also explained why Harry had not received the gene for poor eyesight.

The door to his room burst open.

"So what'd you get from your little meeting, Potty?"

Harry shoved both photos under his covers. "None of your business, Matthew."

The older boy smirked. "Talking back, are you? Don't worry, I just want a peek to see if it's something I can use."

"Go away," Harry snapped, pressing firmly against the blanket with his palms.

"I don't work like that, Harry, you know that," Matthew said in a business-like tone. "Now get up off your bed and let me see, or I'll make you."

"I won't," Harry said stubbornly. "I..."

He landed on the floor with a cry of pain as his arm twisted under him.

"What have we here? Another one of your stupid photos. Who is it this time, Potter? Your dead aunty?"

"Give it back," Harry gritted out through clenched teeth. Still sprawled on the floor, he clutched his wrist. He was quite sure it had been sprained.

"I don't know why you're always so pathetic about useless objects," Matthew said offhandedly. He jerked his hands apart, and the paper tore in two. "Oh, how careless of me, it seems I've torn it."

Harry could only glare at him with hate-filled eyes as he let go of the pieces and they drifted, apart, to the ground. He had no wish to be beaten again, especially less than twenty-four hours after the first time.

"I'm sure you'll be able to salvage your little piece of sentimental trash," the other boy continued. "I'll leave you be now. It would be best if word didn't get to Mrs. Kensington of our little encounter. G'day, Potter."

The door slammed behind him. In a fit of rage, Harry tore the photo into smaller bits and threw it into the wastepaper basket. He sat down heavily on the bed, cradling his hurt wrist. And he made his decision.

* * *

Two mornings later, Harry was packed and ready to leave. He left his duffle bag on his neatly made bed while he went down to breakfast. Midway through the meal, he was called to the office. He was not sorry; he was too agitated to be hungry.

Lupin had come alone. Harry wondered briefly why Dumbledore hadn't come. He plunged straight to the point.

"I want to leave," he said resolutely.

Lupin looked up sharply. "That's an interesting choice of words."

He studied Harry for what seemed to be a long time. Harry squirmed a little under his gaze. Then the man smiled. It was a small, tense smile, and looked underused.

"All right, Harry. Get your things. I'll arrange with Deborah Kensington."

"I've got them," said Harry. "They're right outside the door."

"You've come prepared, I see," Lupin remarked, with mild curiosity. "Excited to go, are you?"

"Very."

"What happened to your hand there?"

"I fell down on the stairs," Harry said easily. He was used to lying about the source of his injuries. "Twisted my wrist a bit."

Lupin did not look quite like he believed him, but he nodded.

"Wait here, I'll be back in a little while."

It did not take a little while. After the first half hour, Harry sat down on one of the plush armchairs. He sat ramrod straight, almost afraid to touch the embroidered cushion.

Suddenly the enormity of his decision hit him. He was rushing blindly off with some friend of his adopted father's that he had only seen once before in his life, to find a family he had not known existed, and he had not even thought of the consequences. The decision had been spur of the moment, stemming from his anger.

How could he know whether his supposed family would accept him? Did they even know that he was coming? His heart clenched. If they did not, he would most likely be sent back here. It would be like reliving his foster home experience. Every single home that had taken him in had given him back to the institution, claiming he was "unsuitable" for their family or circumstances, whatever that meant. Harry wondered whether it was their problem or his own disagreeableness.

Before he could brood any longer, the door opened.

"Sorry it took so long," said Lupin. "I had to show quite a bit of authorization. Proof of guardianship, identification, et cetera. They don't want some random stranger to cart you off."

Harry looked at him oddly. "That's sort of what's happening."

Lupin nodded ruefully. "Quite right. Here, let me help you with your baggage."

They left the room together. Mrs. Kensington met them outside and walked them to the front door. It was empty, as most of the residents were still in the dining hall. Harry glanced over the place that had accommodated him for most of his life. He couldn't bring himself to feel sorry that he was leaving it behind. He turned around to face his foster mother.

"Goodbye, Mrs. Kensington," said Harry. "Thank you ever so much, for everything."

"Goodbye, Harry," she replied kindly. "I wish you the best of luck."

She shook his hand gravely, and waved to them once before closing the door. They were both silent as they walked down the gravel path to the parking lot. Lupin led him an old sedan parked in the shade of a willow tree. He opened the passenger door for Harry. Harry noticed that he did so awkwardly, almost as if he was unused to the feel of the handle.

When they were both settled, Lupin started the engine and they turned into the road.

"You said something about proof of guardianship," Harry said. "Are you my guardian?"

Lupin looked uncomfortable, and did not answer for about a minute.

"Not exactly. The responsibility was passed to me from your godfather."

"I have a godfather?" Harry's heart sank. "Is he dead?"

Lupin swallowed. "I'd rather not talk about it."

"If you're my guardian now, then why haven't you ever come to see me?" Harry asked pointedly. He couldn't help it.

"I'm very sorry, Harry," Lupin said gently. "I know I should have. I suppose I felt guilty for not taking you in. I have a... a medical condition that disallows me from raising children. It was inexcusable for me not to visit you, though. Please forgive me."

Harry was silent. He could hardly think what to say.

"So where are we going now?"

* * *

 **Reviews, people, reviews. At least if you want me to continue!**


	4. Chapter 4

**Wow, two chapters in one day again. I should probably stop doing that or else I'm going to have to actually start writing... Anyway, here it is!**

* * *

The door to the flat swung open. Harry eyed the front room with interest. It hardly looked lived in. The furniture looked new and unused, the kitchen painfully clean. There was not a single spot or stain or the floor, and he could smell cleaning product in the air. Lupin dropped his bag onto the stiff couch.

"You settle in, Harry. I'm going to get take-out. I'll be back soon. You can use the room at the end of the hallway. It isn't much, but we'll only be here for a few days anyway. Don't wander off."

The last part was said in a half-joking manner, but Harry could tell that he was very serious. He nodded mutely. After Lupin had gone, Harry gathered up his bag and started to search for his room. It did not take long. The flat was small.

Although his bedroom was not colorful, it was not as surgically clean as the rest of the flat. There was a four post bed in one corner with a fleece blanket and a soft pillow. Harry sat down on the bedspread carefully and bounced a few times. The mattress felt remarkably soft compared to the cots back at the institution.

He decided it would be useless to unpack, and so he lay back on the soft bed and contemplated the ceiling. It felt strange not to have to worry about a gang of bullies bursting into the quiet. Not to have George rustling a book across the room. He wondered who was George's roommate now. Perhaps he didn't have one.

He also thought a little about his foster mother (although she wasn't exactly his foster mother any more), remembering a incident that had happened when he had been six. Matthew had just arrived, and had been provoked by the young boy's constant, innocent badgering. Before he could register what had happened, he had been thrown to the ground with a bloody lip and sore jaw. Mrs. Kensington had found him in a corner a little while later, his small body shaking with sobs and his face wet with tears. She had been uncharacteristically kind and gentle, wiping away his tears and giving him a glass of milk to comfort him. She had sent to his room to rest with a bag of ice for his swollen jaw and had reprimanded the older boy severely. Unfortunately, she had been oblivious to most of bullying he had received. He had learned his lesson after the first few instances, and had kept his mouth shut after that.

This new drift was not one he wanted to dwell on. He closed his eyes and breathed slowly, in and out. Before long, he felt drowsy. The bed was ridiculously comfortable and his own even breathing was a lullaby.

* * *

The novelty of the flat had worn thin. Lupin had spent most of his time on the telephone for two days in a row, and, consequently, Harry had mostly remained in his room. Eight-year-old boys were not made to stay in confined spaces for long periods of time. It did not help that Lupin was having trouble keeping the device connected with whoever he had such long conversations with. He would randomly place the phone back on the receiver and reach for a paper. It would take a minimum of ten minutes for him to place the call again, and sometimes no one picked up. Harry had considered offering help, as the man often seemed to be at his wit's end.

There was something strange about Lupin's behavior. Harry could make neither head nor tail of it. It seemed harmless, but it was still strange. He had little to no knowledge of everyday things, such as cars, kitchen appliances, and computers. Every so often, Harry would catch him mumbling words under his breath, in a language that sounded like Latin. Before he could investigate, however, Lupin would quickly turn his back.

Fortunately, the older man seemed to be progressing in his research. He told Harry that he had spoken to his father, who had been at first skeptical but had agreed to meet them. Shortly after, Harry was informed that Lupin had procured plane tickets and they would be leaving for South Dakota in a few days.

"My par... the Winchesters live in South Dakota? Where's that?"

He still felt peculiar addressing the Winchesters as his parents. "Parent" was a sacred title, and up to this point he had only used it when he spoke of James and Lily.

"It appears so," Lupin frowned. "It's in the Northern United States. I wonder..."

But he stopped abruptly, leaving Harry to wonder what he would have said.

The night before their flight, Harry could hardly sleep. His bed creaked a little as he turned for the hundredth time. Unable to calm himself, he got up and tiptoed to the kitchen for a glass of water. A thin beam of light shone through the partly open door of Lupin's bedroom. Although he did not mean to eavesdrop, Harry felt drawn towards it. When he was a few feet away, he heard Lupin murmuring. He crept to the crack and listened.

"Albus... No, Albus, there's something you need to know. I've been researching the Winchesters. Whenever the name comes up, it has something to do with..." here his voice sank too low for Harry to hear. "I think they're hunters, Albus," Lupin said suddenly, slightly more loudly. "Is it safe for him to go th... No, I haven't... All right... All right. We're leaving at seven o'clock tomorrow morning... Okay... Okay, goodbye."

The conversation was clearly over. Harry withdrew, puzzled by its strange content.

* * *

" _Harry_."

The voice seemed to come from far away.

"Harry, wake up. We have to leave for the airport."

Harry opened his eyes blearily.

"What did you say?" he asked, yawning.

"We need to get going," said Lupin, clearly amused. He showed no trace of the anxiety that had been in his voice the night before. "Comb your hair, brush your teeth, and meet me in the kitchen with your bag in ten minutes. I let you sleep as long as possible."

Harry swung his legs over the side of the bed and promptly yawned again.

"All right, all right," he said grumpily, at Lupin's persistence. "I'm getting up."

"Good lad."

When Harry was alone again, he groped around in his duffle for a clean t-shirt and the same jeans he had worn for the past week. He felt a little nervous as he dressed. Was this how they dressed in America? Would he appear strange to his new family? He stared at himself in the bathroom for several minutes. His dark brown hair stuck up all over his head. He made a futile attempt to neaten it. All he managed to do was point the mop in different directions. He took one more anxious glance at the mirror before grabbing his bag and sprinting to the kitchen. Lupin had set out a piece of toast with butter and cheese, presumably for Harry, but he himself was nowhere in sight. Harry gratefully consumed it.

"Are you ready?" Lupin asked, straightening his collar as he exited his room.

"I think so," Harry replied. Lupin cracked a small grin.

"Don't worry, Harry. Everything will be fine."

Harry gave him a curt nod. Lupin glanced quickly around the flat.

"It doesn't look like there's anything left to do," he remarked. He reached into the refrigerator and took out a sandwich. He handed it to Harry. "For the plane ride. Shall we?"

He opened the door for Harry, who lugged his duffle out into the hallway. Lupin locked the door behind them and took the bag.

The drive to the airport seemed much longer than it really was due to Harry's state of feverish excitement. They hurried through security and arrived at the gate in the nick of time, boarding just within the last five minutes before take-off. Their seats were in the very back of the plane. Lupin heaved the bag into one of the overhead compartments (having been directed to do so by Harry). Harry stared out the window as the plane took off, taking him away from his homeland and back to the country of his birth.

* * *

 **Reviews!**


	5. Chapter 5

**Fifth chapter! By the way, in case I haven't given it already, here is my disclaimer: Nothing from Supernatural or Harry Potter belongs to me. Zero. Zip. Zilch. Nada. There you have it. Enjoy the story.**

* * *

"Attention, passengers, we will be landing shortly. Please check your seat belts and the trays in front of you. Secure your baggage under the seat in front of you or in the overhead compartments. We hope you have enjoyed your flight."

There was static as the microphone was switched off. Harry licked his lips, his mouth tasting decidedly stale. He craned his neck as he strained to see below him. It was strange to be arriving at what was technically only two hours past the time of their departure. The sunlight streamed through the oval windows, lighting the airplane cabin brightly. He could already see that it would be quite hot.

The tiny, glinting dots far below were cars. It was novel to be riding in a plane so high above the ground. It was the first time Harry had ever ridden a plane, barring the time he had presumably gone on one to reach England. But he had no recollection of that time. The sensation was quite invigorating.

He opened his eyes when he felt a falling sensation in the pit of his stomach. The plane was tilted at a mild incline. He gripped his armrests. Lupin looked only slightly more at ease than he. Harry was glad when the plane touched down, although the landing was jarring.

The passengers rose almost as one body and crowded out of the plane. They were one of the last ones out. As they were striding towards the exit, Lupin cleared his throat. Harry looked up sharply. It had sounded a little guilty.

"Is someone meeting us?" he asked.

Lupin rubbed the back of his neck.

"I..." he started awkwardly. "I might not have been entirely truthful, Harry."

A shock of fear ran through Harry.

"What?" His voice was slightly breathless, both from alarm and trying to keep up with his companion's long legs.

"They don't know we're coming," Lupin admitted.

"I don't understand," said Harry. He scowled. "I thought you've spent the last week talking to them on the phone."

"I've been communicating with other people," Lupin answered, looking distraught. "There's a problem, though, Harry. I don't really know anything about them. All I know are the names John and Mary Winchester, and an address in South Dakota. It isn't even their home address; it's the address of a friend. Singer Salvage something-or-other. I don't think they'll recognize your name either. James and Lily picked it after all."

"Why did we come here? What do we do now?" Harry exclaimed. His distress must have shown on his face, because Lupin quickly reassured him.

"We're going to the address I found," he said, "and I'll give them an explanation. Don't worry," he added, " I'm not going to leave you there unless I'm absolutely sure they're good people."

Harry suppressed a sigh of relief. "How will we get there?"

"We'll take a bus to the town and then walk."

* * *

Harry squinted up through the afternoon sun. A weathered wooden placard read, "Singer Salvage Yard." The lot was full of rusty cars that were half falling apart. He could see very well why they needed to be salvaged. Lupin looked dubious at this turn of events.

"I expected something a little better than this,' he murmured, as if to himself.

Harry, on the other hand, found the new surroundings quite fascinating, and the salvage yard even more so. He had never seen anything even remotely like it. Lupin drew in a deep breath.

"We might as well meet the owner. His name is Singer, by the looks of it."

They trekked up the long dirt drive. The atmosphere was hot and dry, and dust devils swirled merrily along the edges of the road. The smell of sweet grass wafted from the surrounding plains.

The old wooden beams of the porch creaked loudly as they stepped onto it. Lupin hesitated for a split second before knocking. They heard footsteps approaching from inside. A bearded man opened the door and peered at them.

"Good afternoon," said Lupin politely.

The man's eyebrows rose about two inches. "What the hell are two Brits like yourselves doing in the middle of Dakota?"

Lupin coughed and looked affronted. "Is it all right if we come in?"

The man gave them a doubtful look.

"Christo," he muttered under his breath. "Well, come on in. I'm Bobby Singer."

"My name is Remus Lupin. Pleased to meet you."

"Likewise."

The inside of the house was dusty and quiet. On one wall there was a row of telephones, each one labeled. The words were too small to read. There was a pile of books on a dresser across the hall, all of them looking rather old and beaten up. Several strange symbols had been drawn on the wall with white paint.

"Come into the living room," the man grunted. Harry observed him more closely and concluded that he was probably around fifty years of age. He motioned for them to sit down.

"Would you like something to drink?"

"Water would be great," Lupin said with a strained smile. "I'm afraid I'm not used to this climate."

"Give me a moment."

He disappeared through another door, into what Harry assumed to be the kitchen. A few moments later he emerged with two glasses of water.

"Here."

Harry reached eagerly for the glass of cool water he was handed. Bobby Singer seemed to watch him with beady eyes and inexplicably relaxed when Harry had finished his water. Glancing sideways, Harry saw that Lupin had finished his as well.

"So what's your business in Sioux Falls?"

"I was really wondering if you know the Winchesters," Lupin told him frankly.

The man stiffened.

"What's that to you?"

Lupin looked at him sharply. "It's important personal business. I can't find them but I happen to know they make regular contact with you."

Singer's eyes narrowed. "And how might you have come across that particular bit of information?"

"I have ways," Lupin replied, with a vague gesture. "But this is important. I need to speak to them right away. Please."

Singer crossed his arms with a stubborn look on his grizzled face. "I ain't giving you any information until you tell me your purpose. Then I'll think about giving them a call."

Lupin looked aggravated. "I don't know whether you know them well enough for me to give you this information."

"You better decide quick because my offer won't stand forever."

"All right," Lupin groaned. He clasped his hands together. "John and Mary Winchester lost one of their sons in a fire, about six years ago, is that correct?"

Singer looked up sharply. "It's about right, I suppose. What are you getting at?"

"What was his name?"

"Look, mister, I don't think..."

"Please."

Singer pursed his lips. "It was Luke Winchester."

Lupin nodded. He took a deep breath. "This is him, Mr. Singer. This is Luke."

* * *

 **As always, I'd love for you to REVIEW!**


	6. Chapter 6

**Wow, aren't you proud of me? Yet another chapter! In the words of Sherlock Holmes, "I am on fire!"**

* * *

The man just stared at them. Harry began to feel uncomfortable. Then he was staring in shock down the barrel of a revolver.

"Who are you really and state your real intent," Singer snapped.

Lupin held up his hands quickly to placate him.

"I'm not lying, Mr. Singer," he insisted. "I know it sounds mad, but you have to believe me."

"I'm not really in the business of believing every random stranger that comes walking into my yard," he growled.

"Give us a chance," Lupin continued, seemingly unfazed by the gun that had been shoved into his face. "Do the DNA tests and everything. Just give John and Mary Winchester a call. I need to see them."

Singer's face tightened. For a moment, Harry thought he would forcibly remove them from the house.

"Fine," he said, lowering the gun a fraction. "I'll call."

He went to a corner of the room, obviously still keeping a sharp eye on them.

"John... yeah, it's Bobby... no, everything's fine... there's a man here says he wants to see you... Dammit, John, he says it's about Luke!"

Harry caught his breath. There seemed to be a long silence at the other end of the line.

"John? John, are you there?"

Harry heard the distinct sound of the dial tone. Singer pulled the phone away from his ear and stare at it in surprise.

"He hung up on me," he said incredulously. He frowned. "If I know John Winchester, he'll be down here soon. Depends on how far away he is. There's a motel in town. If you're going to stay, you'd better be who you say you are. He ain't gonna be happy otherwise."

"Thanks," said Lupin.

Bobby grunted noncommittally and addressed Harry.

"Seems you've grown up a mite since your picture was taken."

"I guess I have," said Harry faintly. "I'm sorry, I don't remember anything. Is my name really Luke?"

Bobby gave him a queer look. "What have you been called all your life?"

"Harry Potter," said Harry.

Bobby snorted.

"Hmph," he muttered. "I expect you don't know anything about the Winchesters, either. You'll be surprised."

Lupin's eyebrows rose a little.

"Will we?"

Bobby ignored the question. "Give me your cellphone number. I'll call you when John gets here."

* * *

 _Drrring. Drrring_. Harry exchanged a glance with Lupin, who reached for the cellphone.

"Hello?"

Involuntarily, Harry leaned closer to listen. Bobby Singer's voice was almost too muffled for him to hear.

"... Winchester's here. Can you come later today?"

"We certainly can," Lupin replied, evidently pleased.

A thrill of excitement tickled Harry's spine. He slid off of the motel bed quietly as Lupin exchanged a few more words with Singer. The phone clicked onto its holder. Harry bounced impatiently on the balls of his feet.

"Let's go," he urged.

Lupin smiled a little.

"Do you mind the walk? Then we'll go by foot. It'll save money and I'd like to enjoy the scenery while I'm here."

Singer's Salvage Yard was perhaps two miles out of town. Their trek took about half an hour. Lupin might have taken longer on his own, but Harry was so eager that he pressed Lupin on quickly. When they neared the property, however, his footsteps lagged. For some strange reason, he suddenly felt uncertain about meeting his alleged parents. But it was too late to turn back.

Lupin rapped on the door.

"Door's unlocked." Singer's muffled voice carried through the walls. "You can let yourselves in."

Lupin stalled, his hand hovering above the doorknob. Then he brought it down in a quick twist and gestured for Harry to followed him inside. The living room was easy to reach; in addition to their earlier visit, they could track down the source of the low voices.

They entered the room. Singer was facing them, speaking to a man whose back was to them. Singer cut off his sentence sharply when he saw them. Harry felt cold sweat break out on his temples. The other man turned around when he saw that Singer's attention had been broken. For a few startled seconds, they stared at one another, frozen in place.

John Winchester looked quite a bit older than he had in the photo. His hair had a good deal more gray weaved in with the dark brown. His face was more lined and careworn, and his eyes looked cheerless. A faded scar curled above his collar. Harry wondered where he could possibly have received such an ugly mark, and why he sat alone on the couch. Where was Mary Winchester?

His father stared at him with an unreadable expression. He stood up and cleared his throat awkwardly. Harry tensed.

"Harry, is it?" John asked gruffly. Harry swallowed.

"Yes... sir," he added as an afterthought.

"I'm..." John hesitated, "I'm John Winchester. But you knew that."

"Yes, sir," said Harry again.

They stared at each other for a few more seconds.

"Excuse me," John muttered.

He brushed past Harry without sparing a glance. Harry's heart sank as the kitchen door swung closed behind him. Bobby Singer glared at it.

"Don't take it personally," he said. "John's a bit addled, I expect. We'll have to talk about a DNA test. There's a clinic a ways down the road. I'll take you there if you need a ride."

Lupin nodded. "That's kind of you."

"Mr. Singer," Harry said. He was nervous around the man, and felt a little ashamed of it. "I hope you don't mind my asking... but where's... where's my mum? Is she busy? Did she not want to come?"

The thought made him feel rather disconsolate. He was not prepared for the reaction. Bobby recoiled. A muffled crash sounded from the kitchen, and a door slammed. Harry jumped.

"You don't know?"

Harry frowned. The look in the man's eyes was sympathy.

"Son," he said. "Mary Winchester is dead."

* * *

 **Review, please.**


	7. Chapter 7

**Aagh, I'm nearing the end of my already-written chapters! Keep prodding me so that my laziness doesn't catch up with me... I can feel it taking over... Just kidding. But read and review, reviews are my life. Read disclaimer from two chapters ago if you really think it necessary.**

* * *

Harry's brain stopped for a second. Bobby's voice seemed to come from far away.

"I'm sorry. I thought you knew."

 _Mary Winchester is dead._

He hadn't realized how excited he'd been to see his real mother, that she'd still been alive. Only to find that he had lost her as well.

 _What is it like to have a mother? I wonder if I'll ever know. All I have now is some father who just left me. I expect that's somewhat better than before._

"Harry, are you all right?"

It was a concerned voice. Lupin.

"Yes," said Harry.

His voice was firm and calm, not showing the tiniest bit of his inner turmoil.

"You looked blank for a moment there."

"I... It was the shock, I guess. I'm fine now."

Bobby eyed him with an odd expression, but Lupin seemed convinced. Harry addressed Bobby.

"How?"

Looking uncomfortable, the man shifted.

"There was a fire," he said finally. "John thought he'd lost both of you."

Harry couldn't help but feel that something was being left out. Bobby's next words, however, shocked him into silence for a second time.

"Your brothers will be excited to meet you."

Brothers. _Brothers_. Now that was unexpected.

"I have brothers?" Harry asked, softly.

Bobby raised an eyebrow.

"You don't seem very well informed," he said suspiciously.

"I'm sorry if I don't remember things that happened when I was an infant," Harry shot back, his agitation revealing itself. He ducked his head immediately, afraid that Bobby might have taken his retort the wrong way, but the man chuckled.

"There's some Winchester shining through right there, boy."

There was a brief period of silence.

"What are their names?" Harry asked suddenly.

Bobby started. "Huh?"

"Their names," Harry repeated. "My... brothers."

The words sounded strange coming from his mouth.

"Sam and Dean."

"Is Sam the older one?"

"No."

Bobby did not offer any more information. Although Harry would have been glad to find out more about his family, he felt disinclined to dig. He settled more deeply into his chair and mulled over the bits of data he'd acquired over the last half hour.

 _My father seems quite stern. He didn't like me. I don't think that was too much of a surprise, though._

He did feel a little hurt over that one, however, so he skipped quickly to the next point. It was not much better.

 _My mother is dead. She's been dead for years. That's probably why my father looks so old._

He did wish that he could have seen her at least once more. Since he had associated her with his memory, the desire had only become stronger.

 _Lavender and mint. My mother. Golden hair. She was beautiful._

He wished he had taped the picture back together now. No doubt the Winchesters had more. Unless... unless they had disposed of her things. A cold fear stole over him. They hadn't, had they? He needed to see his mother, to be able to remember her face.

 _Sam and Dean. Dean is the older one. Are they older than me?_

He was suddenly struck with fear.

 _What if they hit me like Matthew? I don't want to stay if that happens._

He realized how very little he knew about them. Practically nothing. He didn't know how they had grown up. Their personalities. Their interests. All he knew were their names, not even their faces or ages. Perhaps they were so close to each other that they would ignore him, or worse, gang up on him. He turned to Lupin in agony.

"Can we go? Please?"

Lupin looked startled, and Bobby alert.

"Whatever for, Harry?"

"I'm tired," Harry lied smoothly. "I want to take a nap. And think."

"You can sleep on the chair," said Bobby, obviously having seen through Harry's lie, although he couldn't have known the reason. Harry found his perception exasperating. "It's the durned nicest in the house."

If that was the truth, Harry did not want to come within ten feet of any of the others. He looked at Lupin pleadingly, but the other man just nodded.

"I have to settle some things here anyway. You can sleep if you want, Harry."

Harry grudgingly buried his head in his arms. It was more to prove Bobby wrong than because of real fatigue. Partly against his will, he felt himself getting drowsier and drowsier. His eyes slipped closed and he slept.

* * *

"Dad, what did Uncle Bobby say?" Sam asked curiously.

His father slammed the door of the Impala moodily. Dean shook his head at his brother with a warning frown. Sam frowned back and shrugged, mouthing "What?" Dean rolled his eyes.

"It was a false alarm, boys," John said brusquely. He busied himself with the car keys. "Nothing to worry about. We'll stay at the motel for the night and then head out again."

"But Dad," Sam protested, ignoring Dean's gestures, "we always stay at Uncle Bobby's."

"Not this time," John said firmly, starting the engine.

"Why?"

"Reasons."

Sam huffed but did not press. He waited with Dean in the car while John checked in at the motel.

"What do you think happened?"

"I don't know," Dean replied. He frowned again. "Don't annoy Dad about it, though. He seemed pretty upset. You shouldn't rile him up so much."

"I don't do it on purpose," Sam said defensively. "He's just always keeping secrets from us. I just wanna know what's going on."

Dean scoffed. "Sam, you're seven. Why do you think Dad keeps some stuff from us?"

"He tells you more than he does me," Sam insisted, crossing his arms sulkily. He glared at Dean from under thick brown bangs. "He takes you on trips and stuff, and when you come home sometimes you're hurt. And you never tell me what's going on! It's not fair, Dean!"

Dean lost his temper.

"I'm four years older than you, Sammy, okay? I know that Dad's just trying to keep you safe, and I think he should."

"What about you?" Sam snapped. "What about keeping _you_ safe?"

He clambered out of the car and slammed the door. Dean started to follow him. With some difficulty, Sam opened the trunk and grabbed his bags.

"What are you doing?" Dean questioned him.

"I'm going to bring my stuff in," said Sam grumpily. Then he seemed to relent. "Sorry for yelling, Dean. I guess I've been sitting still a bit too long."

"It's okay," Dean muttered, as Sam walked towards the motel.

Dean slammed the trunk closed with a loud bang to vent his feelings, and sat back down on the passenger seat.

Neither Sam nor his father came out for a long time. Dean assumed that John had started more research. Sam was probably doing homework, the little nerd. He was always anxious to keep up with his grade.

Dean liked the calm and quiet of the South Dakota dusk, so he delayed going inside for as long as possible. He pulled out one of his revolvers and started to polish it absently.

About half an hour later, the figures of a man and a boy appeared, walking down the two-lane highway. Dean stowed his gun back in his duffle and eyed them with mild interest. They seemed ordinary enough.

They walked into the parking lot about two hundred feet away from him and stopped, apparently discussing something. They split up; the man disappeared into a motel room, and the boy sat down on the curb, absently throwing pebbles towards the few headlights that neared them on the road. With nothing else of interest in sight, Dean observed the boy as well as he could, despite the distance and the diminishing light.

He looked to be about Sam's age, perhaps a little older, and he was rather thin. Not painfully so, but enough so that it was noticeable. His hair was dark, either black or a dark brown. The rest of his features were obscured. Something about him demanded Dean's attention.

Dean stood up and approached the boy a little warily, pasting a friendly smile on his lips. He could feel the handle of his silver knife chafing his back and the small bottle of holy water bumping up and down in the front pocket of his flannel shirt. He shook away his ridiculous instincts and told himself that the boy was harmless. But he felt more comfortable armed.

When he was about twenty feet away, the boy turned. He remained silent, watching with luminous green eyes as Dean squatted near him.

"Hi," said Dean conversationally.

He kept his tone light, testing the waters. The boy cocked his head. The movement looked weirdly familiar.

"Hi," he replied, shortly.

Dean raised an eyebrow at the boy's brevity, and noted a slight inflection in his speech. Possibly British.

"You staying here tonight?"

"Yes."

Definitely British.

"Me, too."

"Oh."

Not very talkative either, by the looks of it. Dean frowned a little. He had never had an easy time carrying a conversation, and this kid was making it especially difficult. What did Sam usually say in these kinds of situations? Maybe he had better introduce himself.

"I'm Dean."

* * *

 **So, whaddya think? Review, please, for the love of me.**


	8. Chapter 8

**So some plot holes have been brought to my attention (thanks to one of my reviewers).**

 **First of all, when James and Lily found Harry - in the first chapter - Harry appeared to have developed perfect speech. My bad. I don't write baby speech well, so Harry seemed a lot more advanced than he really was. Just to make it clear, Harry was not fully aware of his own name (you know how some small kids just refer to themselves as "Bah" or "Beh"), therefore he couldn't have told the Potters what it was, resulting in them giving him a new name.**

 **Also, Harry was at least 3-4 times bigger than a newborn, being around 2.5 years old, so what did the magical community think? Well, I'd just say that Lily said she used a concealment spell to hide her bump, and then they used a glamour spell to cover up the added years. Considering the fact that they knew that Harry could have been born a Muggle child, they didn't want to have him ostracized in the magic community. I doubt even a squib would be looked down on as much as a Muggle.**

 **Finally, Bobby refused to believe Lupin's story, although Lupin clearly showed that he was unaware of Mary Winchester's death (an imposter would have checked to make sure his facts were straight). Bobby is a very wary person, and he was suffering from mild shock, so I doubt he would have thought too much about blinds and double-blinds. Besides which there is the issue of Harry coming from Britain - I mean, Bobby would be wondering how on earth he ended up there from a house fire in Kansas in the first place.**

 **Anyway, that's the end of this rather longer than usual author's note. I hope you like this new chapter as well as those to come!**

* * *

The younger boy seemed to stiffen. His face paled.

"Dean Win..."

Dean narrowed his eyes. He hadn't told him his last name.

"I'm Harry," the boy said hastily.

Dean looked him shrewdly, but was careful to keep his tone casual.

"So what're you doing in Sioux Falls?" he asked innocently, pretending that he hadn't heard the boy's little slip-up.

"I'm with my uncle. He wanted to visit some guy called Singer. I got dragged along."

So this had something to do with Uncle Bobby. These must have been the guys that had upset Dad. Knowing Bobby, he'd probably run them through the majority of the tests, but it wouldn't hurt to double-check.

"Christo," Dean swore in answer to his comment, watching him closely. Harry did not flinch, but he did look a little confused. Dean mentally shrugged. He hadn't really expected a reaction. "I'd hate that."

The other boy cracked a small smile. "Yeah. Well, his business did involve me, so I don't mind much."

Dean nodded.

"I think I'd better go in," the boy said hesitantly. Dean was fairly certain that that had not been what Harry had originally planned on saying, but he rolled with it.

"Yeah, I probably should, too. My family's probably wondering where I am."

A strange expression crossed the boy's face.

"Okay," was all he said. "It was nice meeting you."

"You, too."

When he joined his father and Sam in Room 418, Sam looked up from a book. He was sprawled on one of the queen beds, drops of bathwater trickling from his damp hair.

"What took so long, Dean?"

Dean sighed and dropped his duffle bag on the ground. The weapons inside clanged together. He flopped onto the bed and closed his eyes.

"Nothing. Nothing at all."

* * *

John was very quiet that night, and Dean kept glancing at him sharply. Sam sighed. Something strange had obviously happened at Uncle Bobby's house and he wasn't being made privy to the details. He continued to observe his father and brother, and to pretend that he was reading.

"Go to bed, Sam. Close your book."

He groaned.

"But Dad..."

"Now, Sam."

Unwillingly, Sam closed his book and dropped it onto the nightstand with a thud. He rolled up in the covers and closed his eyes, but he stayed awake. He knew that Dean and John usually talked things over when he was asleep, and this time especially he wanted to know what was happening.

It was well over an hour before either opened their mouth. Sam had had the hardest time not drifting off. It did help, though, that the pillow stuffing was rather prickly, and that the sheets were a bit rough. He wondered with mild annoyance why they hadn't stayed with Uncle Bobby this time.

"Dad," he heard Dean say.

Sam stiffened and pricked up his ears.

"What?"

Sam winced a little at the brevity of his father's reply. Dean, however, was unfazed.

"What happened at Bobby's?"

A notebook slapped closed.

"Dean, I believe I recall telling you that you didn't need to know."

"No, you didn't," Dean replied. "You said that it was a false alarm. But it wasn't, was it? You seemed pretty upset when you came back."

"Drop it, Dean," John said warningly. Sam could almost see Dean's jaw stiffen.

"Was it something to do with a boy named Harry?"

"What are you talking about?"

"Dad, I'm not an idiot," said Dean coolly. "While I was waiting outside, a couple people walked up the road from Bobby's house. I talked with the boy for a while. He recognized my name. Why's that?"

"Dean."

John's voice was tight - he was obviously trying to keep his temper.

"Listen, Dad. Maybe you can put Sammy off, but I gotta know."

John sighed heavily and sat down again. "I don't think you'll want to know this time, Dean."

"What is it?"

"Bobby says that Harry is Luke."

Sam frowned. Luke? Who was Luke? There was a very long silence.

"What the hell did you say?"

Sam listened in confusion at the change in Dean's voice. It was barely above a whisper. Sam opened his eyes a crack. Dean looked shocked. John rubbed his forehead, uncharacteristically ignoring Dean's swearing.

"He's been misled, obviously."

John sounded like he was trying to convince himself. Dean's knuckles were white. John glanced at him helplessly a few times, then cleared his throat roughly.

"I'm going to take a shower. You should get some sleep, Dean."

The bathroom door shut. Dean was still sitting like a statue in his chair.

The water turned on. It was the soothing splatter of the jets that finally lulled Sam to sleep.

* * *

Something had changed when Sam woke up. Dean looked very subdued, and his father was completely silent. Sam pretended that nothing was wrong, but it was very disconcerting to receive either a monosyllabic reply or silence in answer to his efforts at conversation.

John had evidently decided to go back to Uncle Bobby's to meet with this "Luke" again. Later that afternoon, Sam had to sit in the car while John returned to their motel room to fetch Dean, who had been furiously polishing his revolver. About twenty minutes later, John walked out wearily with a sullen Dean, who uncharacteristically planted himself in the back seat and remained silent for the whole car ride.

They pulled up at Singer's Salvage Yard.

"Dean."

John had already gotten out. Sam poked his brother experimentally in the shoulder.

"Cut it out, Sammy," Dean mumbled from the depths of his sweatshirt.

"Come on, Dean, you can't be like this all day," Sam pleaded. He bounced a little. "Who's Luke, anyway?"

Dean started violently.

"How do you know about him?"

Sam's grin faltered. He withdrew, suddenly not quite sure whether he should have listened. Dean's face had sharpened and he was sitting up straighter.

"I heard you," Sam confessed quickly. "Last night."

Dean opened the door and stepped out without a word. Sam frowned and followed him.

Bobby opened the door once they set foot on the porch. He looked relieved.

"Glad you came back, John. They got here early this morning."

"I'm just giving this a shot on the chance it could be true," John growled.

Bobby waved a hand. "Sure. Whatever you say."

When they entered the living room, there were two people sitting on the couch. One was a middle-aged man, the other was a boy. Confused, Sam looked to Dean, but could not find him.

The mysterious boy started to his feet, but seemed to decide against it, and sat back down rigidly. Sam looked at him with some interest. He looked about Sam's own age - a little thinner and taller, granted. His eyes were vibrantly green, unusually similar to Dean's. Sam felt an unpleasant jolt as he started to suspect what exactly was happening.

The silence in the room was deafening. Sam started to fidget. Bobby was gone, as was Dean. John looked surly, and the man across from him looked uncomfortable. The boy kept averting his eyes away from anyone who so much as glanced toward him.

Sam breathed a sigh of relief when Bobby walked in, his feet making heavy thuds against the hard wood floor. The older man's eyebrows rose as he took in the scene before him. Quietly, Dean snuck in behind him and took a chair behind Sam.

"Do y'all think you're in church or something? Why don't you start talking business?"

* * *

Harry scuffed his foot against the ground uncomfortably. The two boys - his brothers - sat across from him in silence. The adults had banished them to the kitchen because they had "important matters" to discuss. Harry glanced upward quickly. Dean was giving him an upraising look. Harry noticed with interest that Dean's eyes were green, similar to his own, but that his hair was the same color as their mother's. A lump came to Harry's throat. He ducked his head again.

"So you're Luke," said Dean.

It was not a question. Harry frowned. He had detected an odd tightness in Dean's voice.

"Well... yes, I suppose I am," he replied, slowly.

"I thought you..." Dean stopped abruptly.

"I what?" Harry asked curiously.

Dean pursed his lips, mumbling, "Never mind. Why didn't you tell me last night?"

"I..." Harry hesitated. "I don't know, I..."

The silence that followed was awkward. Harry shifted a little on his perch. The chirping of crickets from outside seemed to rise in volume and the air felt thicker and warmer by the minute.

"How old are you?" Sam asked quickly.

"Nearly nine," Harry told him.

Sam's face brightened.

"I'm seven and Dean's eleven. I guess that means you're exactly in the middle."

The lighter mood was broken by Dean's gruff, "No, he isn't. He's closer to you."

He stood up and stalked out the door of the bedroom. Harry felt his chest deflate. The older boy seemed to dislike him. He noticed that his hands were lacing in and out nervously. Self-consciously, he stilled them.

"Don't mind Dean," he heard Sam tell him. Sam sounded angry. "He's like that sometimes. I think he's too much like Dad."

"It's okay," Harry said quietly, staring at the ground. "I expect it's just a little weird for him. It's not like we know each other."

Sam was quiet for so long that Harry was afraid to look up.

"I'm glad you're here," Sam said finally. "I like having someone like me to talk to."

"But you have Dean," Harry pointed out, puzzled. But a warm feeling had welled up inside him.

Sam made a face.

"Sure. But older brothers are always bossy and restrictive. Dean's awesome, but he's really protective and it gets annoying, you know?"

Harry did not know. But he nodded.

* * *

 **Thank you so much for your reviews, guys. They mean a lot to me. Of course, if you could do me the teensy favor of reviewing yet again...**


	9. Chapter 9

**Wow, 100 favs and over 200 follows! Thanks, guys!**

 **Sorry** **about the shamefully long wait (I am horribly lazy but I promise I am still continuing this story). I simply reached the end of my written chapters so I had to completely plan and think out what the story's future course would be. I do have a sort of outline mapped out so hopefully I'll be able to churn them out more quickly. Oh, and I was on vacation, too, which added to my laziness. Many sincere apologies and now may I present the ninth chapter!**

 **As always, neither Harry Potter nor Supernatural belong to me. Isn't that quite obvious?**

* * *

 _"... plenty of room at the Hotel California. Any time of yea..."_

The radio suddenly clicked off and Dean jolted up indignantly. He glared at Sam.

"What's your problem? The door was closed, Curly Locks."

Sam, as usual, glowered right back, unamused, and threw himself on a chair across from Dean.

"What's _your_ problem, Dean?" he retorted. His face twisted in confusion and Dean was reminded how young he really was. "I don't get it. Don't you like Harry? You keep ignoring him."

Dean grabbed a pillow and rolled over on it, turning his back to his brother. He didn't feel like dealing with Sam right now.

Unfortunately Sam was unusually persistent for a boy his age. He crawled onto the bed and started prodding Dean's shoulder, with increasing force.

"He's your little brother, too, Dean. See, there's two of us now."

Dean groaned and pulled the pillow over his head.

"Stop reminding me," he mumbled.

"What?"

"I said to stop reminding me!"

Sam was apparently stunned into speechlessness by this outburst. After several longs seconds of silence, Dean began to feel uncomfortable. He grudgingly snuck a look at Sam, who was sitting back on his haunches with a very confused and worried furrow on his brow.

"Hey, kid," he grunted, cuffing Sam's arm. "What's with the deep, brooding expr..."

"You know what?" Sam interrupted, scowling deeply. "I'm gonna leave."

He scrambled off the bed and stalked to the door (well, he didn't exactly stalk as his legs were too short, but he tried to). Dean tossed his pillow to the ground and hurried after him.

"Hey, stop."

He tried to grab Sam's sleeve, but Sam bounded down the stairs without a backward glance. Dean returned to his burrow under the covers, feeling very resentful towards the newest addition to the Winchester clan. In less than a week, the kid had managed to overturn completely his carefully and precariously balanced world.

It wasn't exactly that Harry wasn't likable – not that Dean had spent enough time in his company to determine anything about him, but according to Sam's generally accurate analysis he was – or that Dean was particularly mean-spirited. In fact, he himself couldn't quite understand why he was acting the way he was. He did have a vague suspicion, though.

And then there was that man who had brought him over from England. Dean had, from the first moment (call it hunters' intuition), felt a pang of distrust towards Lupin. Something about the way he carried himself...

But he knew he was being ridiculous. Dad and Bobby had certainly gone through all of the tests once, if not multiple times. They were both very intense about those kinds of things.

Lupin had gone the day before after several cautions and veiled threats directed towards Dad (less so towards Bobby) if Harry was harmed in any way, which was a completely laughable idea; maybe Dad didn't hang around for all their birthdays and maybe he wasn't an emotionally open man, whatever that meant (he'd heard Bobby say that to someone on the phone before), but he would never _ever_ think of hurting them.

There was a sharp rap on the door.

"Dean."

He quickly opened the door.

"Yeah, Dad?"

John Winchester gave him a fond if rather stern look.

"Pack up, son. I found a job."

His heart sank.

"But, Dad, I thought we were gonna stay with Bobby for a while."

"Change of plans," John said gruffly.

"Yessir. What about..."

"Get Sam ready, too." His father continued as if he hadn't heard him. "Be ready the car in fifteen minutes."

"Okay, Dad."

In a rare moment of affection, John ruffled his hair. Dean gave him a tight smile and wondered (not that he cared, really) why he hadn't told him to get Harry ready.

* * *

"Dad said we have to pack up," Sam chirped cheerfully, bouncing on his mattress.

Harry looked up from his book - it was called Peter Pan, and Bobby Singer had pretended to forget it in the boys' room, but Harry knew better although he wondered why the man bothered to be so thoughtful - and frowned.

"Where are we going?"

Sam waved a hand airily.

"Oh, somewhere," he said vaguely. "Dad's always taking us on road trips. He has to travel for his job."

Harry didn't quite like the idea of sitting for hours in a car with his morose new father. He cringed a little and opted for a neutral answer in case Sam was loyal and protective of his dad.

"What _is_ his job, anyway?"

"Dunno." Sam shrugged and rolled onto his back to stare at the wooden slats above him. Harry leaned over the edge to peer down at him. "Dean knows, but he won't tell."

He scowled.

"What is it?" Harry asked uneasily, and hoped Sam wasn't prone to erratic bursts of temper.

"Nothing."

Sam's voice suddenly lacked its usual openness. Harry didn't pry. He climbed down from his bunk.

"I'd better get ready."

Although when he'd arrived he had felt his clothing supply to be inadequate, he had quickly noted that Sam and Dean were dressed similarly. It was a relief to know that, even if he was a misfit, he wasn't an unusually shabby misfit. He placed the book (it was the first he had ever owned) in his pack reverently.

"Hey."

Harry whipped his head around to see Dean in the doorway, awkwardly holding two duffels. He jerked his head at Sam without deigning to give Harry any form of acknowledgment.

"Get into the car. Here's your stuff."

"All right," Sam said, shooting Dean a sullen glance. They had clearly had a fall-out over something, and Harry thought uncomfortably that he knew what it was. Then his face brightened. "Come on, Harry. I can show you the Impala."

Harry couldn't help but grin back as he grabbed his things.

"He isn't coming," said Dean, rather coolly.

" _What_?"

If Sam had been sullen before, he looked absolutely wrathful now.

"What the hell are you talking about, Dean? Of course he's coming!"

"Watch your language, Sam," Dean said mildly. "It's Dad's orders, anyway."

Clenching his jaw mutinously, Sam snatched his bag and marched away. Dean seemed to give Harry an almost apologetic look. Harry swallowed and flipped his book open again, studiously ignoring Dean.

When he heard the door close, he gave up his facade, tossing his precious book to the side without care and staring miserably at the wall through hot eyes.

* * *

 **Review, review, review, review! Would you, could you, please review? (Guess what that's from and you get ten completely useless points)**


	10. Chapter 10

**I am so very sorry for the long delay between chapters 8 and 9 that I'm giving you a double whammy. How's that for a sincere apology?**

 **Don't be too annoyed at Dean and John. They're just really overwhelmed and they don't know how to deal with their own feelings, so running away is, for them, the best option.**

* * *

Dean couldn't tell what John was feeling after leaving Harry behind. His face certainly didn't show the faintest trace of guilt of regret as he concentrated on the road ahead, his eyes only wandering if he saw a movement in the forests around them. Dean suppressed a sigh, wishing he hadn't waited outside Harry's door for so long. He'd heard muffled sobs, and he was still hearing them although they'd been on the road for an hour already.

He snuck a glance behind him. Sam was sulking in the back, and refused to look at him no matter what. He was hidden behind a pile of duffles and plastic bags, a large hoodie engulfing his small form. Dean shifted and stared out the open window so he wouldn't have to endure his silent family.

They stopped at a gas station half an hour later. While John filled up the tank, Dean walked into the nearly empty food mart. The cashier was unfriendly (Dean made sure to say "Christo," but all he'd gotten was a dirty look) and rang up his chips and soda pop with a surly air.

Dean pulled the Impala's back door open purposefully and yanked the hoodie away, only to stare uncomprehendingly at the empty seat in front of him.

"Dad!"

There was a swift clank as John replaced the nozzle.

"What is it?"

"It's Sam. He's gone!"

"What?"

His father's face paled as he pulled out his cellphone. Dean saw his fingers shake as he dialed a number.

"Bobby? Bobby, is that..."

His face darkened at whatever it was that he was being told.

"Why the hell didn't you call me right away?" he exploded finally. "No, you listen, Bobby, he's my son, he..." He stopped abruptly. "It's none of your business. Tell Sam I'm not coming back for him... No, I'm not! He'll get a whaling when I... Bobby? Bobby!"

Breathing heavily, John snapped it shut, his jaw working in anger. Dean jumped when his balled fist slammed into the roof of the car.

"Dammit! That little..." he muttered a string of unintelligible expletives.

"Where is he, Dad?" Dean asked, swallowing his anxiety as best he could.

"At Bobby's, stubborn mule that he is. He pulled a fast one on us. The in and out."

* * *

Harry listened to the rumble of the motor as he sat on his bed, still clutching his book. He couldn't bring himself to watch them go. It was silly of him to feel that way, as he'd really only known them for five days, but he couldn't help it.

"Hey, kid."

Bobby gazed at the boy with a softness in his eyes that quickly vanished as Harry looked up, his green eyes troubled and confused. Bobby swallowed the irritation that was building up against John inside him.

"I've got some potato chips and milk in the kitchen if you want 'em," he said, picking his words carefully. The boy frowned.

"You have chips?" Then his face reddened. "Oh, right. Chips."

Bobby smiled, but was careful to make it good-natured and not mocking.

"No need to sit up here and roast. It'll reach ninety-five degrees by mid afternoon, says the weatherman. You can read just as well in the living room."

He received only a very small smile in return, but the boy did get up and follow him downstairs, clutching _Peter Pan_ to his chest protectively. Casually, Bobby poured out two glasses of milk and dragged out one of the wooden chairs. Harry gave it a wary look and sat down gingerly, but didn't touch the glass. Bobby let him be.

They sat in silence for a while, Bobby sipping his milk and staring out into the yard absently. There was an old '57 Bel Air rusting near the corner of his property. It wasn't in bad shape, but he'd left it alone for a while as the owner had died and consequently wouldn't need it quite as urgently as some of his other, living clients. He could paint it its original coral and white after cleaning it and replacing the engine...

A small clink jolted him back to the real world and he looked through the corner of his eye at the messy-haired boy beside him. He'd reached out tentatively and taken the glass, and was now sipping it slowly. The corner of Bobby's mouth twitched the tiniest bit and he returned to contemplating the Bel Air. He would have to check the transmission as well... fix that cracked windshield.

He knew he wasn't really thinking about the car, but he also knew that he couldn't – and shouldn't – push the silent boy. Goodness knew the kid had enough to bother him without adding a nosy old man to the mix. Harry would talk in his own time.

Or he probably would have talked in his own time if the front door hadn't squeaked open. Bobby was on his feet immediately, and he motioned for Harry to stay seated.

"Uncle... Uncle Bobby?"

He relaxed. Then he rolled his eyes and threw open the kitchen door.

"Sam? Why aren't you with your Daddy?"

But of course he knew why, and he felt a swell of pride because Sam was Sam, and of course he'd do this.

* * *

 _"Sam? Why aren't you with your Daddy?"_

Harry stiffened, almost dropping his glass in surprise. What on earth could Sam be doing here? He was suddenly worried about him. Bobby Singer was chewing Sam out, but even he could tell that it was mostly affectionate ribbing.

"You're an idjit," Bobby was saying fondly, as Harry crept to the doorway.

Sam protested vehemently.

"I'm not! You know they were being unfair, I couldn't let 'em leave him here by himself!"

Bobby grunted.

"What am I? Chopped liver?"

"Don't be silly, Uncle Bobby," Sam said patiently. "You know that's not what I'm talking about."

Bobby chuckled and smacked the back of his head.

"Well, come on in, kiddo."

Sam's eyes flicked towards the kitchen.

"Harry!"

Startled, Harry found his arms full of a dingy sweatshirt and a mop of curly brown hair.

"I didn't go, I got out the other door. Dean used to do that all the time when he was..." Sam loyally gulped down the rest of the supposedly confidential information. "They won't know I'm gone for a while," he boasted. "Dean'll just think I'm in a bad mood or something."

Harry patted his back awkwardly, unsure of what exactly a hug entailed.

"Won't he be dreadfully upset?" he asked uncertainly. "I don't want to cause trouble."

Sam seemed to hesitate for a moment.

"I don't... know exactly," he admitted. "I guess so, maybe. I hope not."

Bobby Singer coughed.

"Well, you two," he grumbled. "How about if you both sit down and I'll see what I can find foodwise. Sam, you can take a look at what's on TV."

Sam brightened visibly.

"Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles?"

Bobby shrugged, but his eyes twinkled.

"I dunno. You tell me."

Sam darted off to the living room and presently they heard a triumphant yell as the hoped for show apparently was found. Harry gave Bobby a questioning look.

"What's Teenage Mut... Mutant..."

"Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles," Bobby supplied. "I'll not even try to explain. Sam'll tell you all about it."

Sam was giggling like the seven-year-old he was, his earlier wise demeanor gone, as Harry walked in. He was lying on his stomach on the grubby but soft carpet that covered the floor in front of the television set. Harry suspected that it had been put there for this very purpose.

"There's Leonardo, and Donatello, and Raphael," Sam crowed happily. "And there's... Harry, hurry up, you don't want to miss this!"

* * *

 **Review, please. I love it when you do!**


	11. Chapter 11

**Now, that wasn't much of a wait, was it?**

* * *

"Dean, get down!"

Dean threw himself to the ground, his heart pounding in his ears, as a shot went off. A salt-filled shell exploded into thousands of crystals above him and he scrambled to his feet, aided by John's rough but steady large hands.

"Cover me," John told him curtly.

Mutely, Dean nodded.

It was silent... too silent. Dean could hear his heart thumping as he scanned the room for the spirit. He didn't like the house at all, and he liked the room they were in even less.

According to local legend, Charlotte Baker had hung herself from a crystal chandelier after she had seen her fiancé with another woman. Two hundred years later, a young girl who was a descendant of the woman had been strangled to death while jogging near the house.

Bobby had told them that Charlotte's body had been cremated, but her engagement ring rested on the mantel above the fireplace. And it was proving to be much more difficult to find than they had anticipated. Unfortunately, Charlotte seemed determined to keep them from reaching the ring.

"Dad," he whispered. "Where..."

He didn't have time to finish the sentence as a heavy chest slammed into his back and sent him flying forward. His shotgun clattered to the ground several yards away from him. When he tried to get to his feet, sparks of pain exploded from his back. He bit back a moan.

"Dad, help!"

A loud crash came from somewhere behind him. He tried to turn to see what was happening.

"I'm coming, Dean! Sit tight!"

There were huge amounts of debris flying around. Dean winced as a shard of glass nicked his cheek, and he ducked his head under his arms for protection. A large flare of light indicated that John had disposed of the ring and Charlotte began to shriek and twist as her incorporeal form burned away.

Dean gasped with relief as the heavy chest was lifted from his body.

"Are you okay, Dean?"

Dean tried to get to his feet.

"I dunno," he mumbled. "My back hurts."

John picked him up carefully and set him on his feet. Dean clutched his arm, suddenly dizzy.

"I told you to cover, Dean," John scolded harshly. "That means watching all sides."

Dean could hear the unmistakable relief in his tone.

"I'm okay, Dad," he gulped.

John cuffed his head lightly.

"You'd better be." He grabbed the shotguns and slung Dean's arm over his shoulder. "Think you can handle a walk to the car?"

Dean nodded. John rubbed his head and then sighed.

"I'd carry you over but I don't want to bend your back. It's probably sprained."

"It's okay, Dad," Dean said quickly. "Really, I'm fine."

John grunted but didn't answer. They made their way as best they could through the rubble and crumbling doorways to the car. Dean sat limply in the passenger seat as John finished packing.

"Dad, do you think Sam's okay?" he asked, voicing a thought that had been troubling him throughout the hunt.

John's face darkened a little and he twisted the key in the ignition rather savagely.

"I'm sure he's fine."

* * *

Dean felt immeasurably relieved when they finally rumbled up to the Singer Salvage. The car ride had been bumpy (it was the first time he'd ever wished that his dad had gotten a newer car... or at least one with better suspension) and every single jolt had sent a spike of pain down his back. He had no doubt at all that it was sprained.

He paused at the doorway, his hand half raised to knock. There were voices coming from inside. Sneaking a glance back at John, who was still unpacking the gear, he twisted the knob carefully, muffling the squeak with one hand, and snuck inside as quietly as he could.

"Come on, Harry," said Sam's voice, rather smugly.

"Um..." Harry sounded dubious. "Sam... this is sort of..."

Muted theme music played in the background. Dean grinned and then winced as his scab split open. Bobby's couch creaked loudly (Sam always had liked to bounce; no wonder the springs were popping out).

"Harry, you _said_! Ready, here it comes... Cowabunga!"

"Uh... Cowabunga?"

Sam's joyous shout completely smothered Harry's weak attempt, and a loud groan followed.

"That was so la..."

Without thinking, Dean pushed open the door and his brothers' conversation abruptly ended. Sam's hazel eyes widened hugely.

"Dean?" he queried. Then his face split into a wide grin. "Dean! You're back!"

Dean didn't have time to protect himself from Sam's hug and he almost collapsed as a fresh wave of pain rolled over him. He doubled over, gritting his teeth.

"Damn, boy, what happened to you?"

Bobby was helping him to a chair. Dean sank down gratefully.

"I tripped... on a step?" he offered uncertainly, acutely aware of the two pairs of ignorant eyes that were watching him. "Hurt my back."

Bobby narrowed his eyes.

"Riiiiight. Let me have a look."

He lifted the back of Dean's shirt and felt around his spine. Dean flinched away as he touched a particularly tender spot.

"Sprained," Bobby told him shortly.

"That's what Dad said."

"Well, he was right. You gotta rest for a few days. Go to bed, son."

Dean groaned.

"Aw, but Bobby..."

"Nope. No arguments."

Dean scowled at him and jerked his shirt back down.

Suddenly he remembered the little incident with Sam. He had planned on giving the kid a bawling out for directly disobeying an order, but he looked so nervous and worried and wide-eyed that Dean relented. He'd be in enough trouble with Dad; there was no need to add to the punishment. So instead of giving him a focused, angry, big-brother glare, Dean just nudged his shoulder and motioned for him to follow.

Sam also seemed to have remembered what he'd done. And while he wasn't too pleased with being thus singled out, he reluctantly rose from his place on the couch and trudged behind Dean. His footsteps dragged against the wood flooring with long, drawn-out scrapes (Sam was always very noisy with his protests).

Dean closed the door and sat quietly across from Sam on the bed. All he had to do was wait.

Sam started to squirm after about five minutes. Then he started with excuses.

"I didn't say I wouldn't get out, I didn't lie, Dean," he complained.

Wordlessly, Dean leaned back against the bedpost. Over the years, he'd mastered the art of making Sam uncomfortable and repentant. He knew that Sam knew it, and he knew that Sam knew that he did. The smaller boy squirmed some more.

"It isn't like I would have gone anywhere other than the motel room and maybe a diner if I _had_ gone," he added, aggrieved. "It's more fun at Bobby's."

Dean raised a strategic eyebrow and Sam huffed loudly.

"Besides, Harry was all by himself. It's not like you were doing anything about it! I had to!"

"Dad isn't happy," Dean interjected finally. "He said he'd give you a whaling."

Sam's face fell.

"I know," he said mournfully. "I heard him over the phone."

Suddenly feeling sorry for him, Dean scooted closer and threw an arm over his narrow shoulders.

"It won't be so bad. Tell you what, I'll see if I can get it down to a grounding or something."

Sam brightened.

"Would you? Thanks, Dean."

"I'll see what I can do," Dean promised, knuckling his head. Sam pulled away with yelp. "Run along, Sammy. I'm stuck in bed rest."

Sam paused at the door.

"Want me to bring something up for you? Anything to read?"

Dean scoffed and climbed painfully into bed, leaving his clothes in a dirty pile on the ground.

"Naw, I'm no bookworm."

"All right," said Sam doubtfully, scratching his head. "You sure you won't get bored, or nothing?"

Dean shook his head and pulled the covers closer around himself. Sam looked rather disappointed.

"Okay, sure," Dean backpedaled quickly. "There is one I haven't finished yet, bottom shelf in the hall. You could bring it up. It's red, I think."

"Are you kidding me?" Sam wrinkled his nose. "Hans Christian Andersen? I thought you hate The Little Mermaid."

Dean shrugged and winked at him.

"Chicks dig it when you know that kind of stuff."

Sam made an "ew" noise at his affectionate use of a term that meant _girls_ and Dean smiled. They were back to normal.

* * *

 **Review! ReViEw! rEvIeW! REVIEW!**


	12. Chapter 12

**I would first like to assert that Harry isn't fragile or broken. He's a strong person. He _is_ , however, rather lonely and unhappy, and he's in a difficult situation so he doesn't know how to act, even with Sam (he's never had a positive relationship with a peer before, let alone a brother). But he isn't going to break down or run away. I hope I haven't been writing him as too nervous and fearful.**

 **Anyway, thank you to Seth Clearwater, Akayuki Novak, Shebajay, The Band of Thieves, SaiyukiLover232, and catlyncarson for your reviews on Chapter 11! Also many thanks to SpiderQueen Dez for your comments/reviews on nearly every single chapter, and to all the rest of my wonderful reviewers. You guys are great and you really help to motivate my writing.**

 **I hope you enjoy Chapter 12! It's a new POV… I don't think I've done John yet.**

* * *

John could feel Bobby's judging eyes on him. They were kind of hard to ignore, really. Damn Bobby Singer. He was already starting to feel guilty. He stared at the little patch of torn carpet near the door and concentrated on it. And Bobby concentrated on him.

Finally – because to hell with it, he hated standoffs – John slammed his beer bottle on the table with a resigned air.

"All right, do you want to tell me why you've been shooting imaginary daggers at my back this whole time?"

Of course he knew. But he wouldn't give the old man that satisfaction. Bobby scoffed.

"Don't act like you don't know."

"So what?" John glared at him, daring Bobby to contradict him. "He wouldn't have been any use, Bobby, and he'd just have been in danger. Besides, I don't even know him. He's just... just... a _stranger_."

"Because you haven't made any effort to interact with him!" Bobby exploded, his face reddening. "Sam's as useless as he is against those things and in just as much danger. That's a poor excuse."

John struggled to keep his temper. He stood up, shoving his chair away rather viciously, and took a long swig from his bottle. To his annoyance, there wasn't a mouthful left. He tossed it in the trash can moodily.

"Listen, I know it brings back bad mem..."

"It's not just that," John growled (he blocked out the last part of Bobby's sentence because he was having trouble holding himself together as it was). "It's..." he swept his arm in a wide arch, "everything. It's strange. How the hell did he get from Kansas all the way to Britain? Without me noticing anyone leave the house? It doesn't make sense. You know he shouldn't be alive! No one could have survived that fire! But if he is, then who's to say Mary can't come back? Or, as a stretch, my parents? I don't get why you expect me to take it in stride and..." he grimaced, " _take him under my wing_ like he's really, _truly_ my son."

"What do you want me to do? Spell it out for you?" Bobby demanded. "The boy needs you, John. I admit, the whole situation's a little weird, but that doesn't mean you have to pretend he don't exist. He did the DNA test and came up clean. He's not possessed, I checked."

John stalked to the refrigerator for another beer, ignoring Bobby's pointed frown.

"What about shapeshifter?"

Bobby's eyes seemed to bug out.

"Now what would be the point in that, seeing as the last time you saw him he was two? You wouldn't have recognized him anyway. But, yes, I did that. Silver cup. He drank out of it without trouble."

John sighed. "Well, then I guess there's nothing to be done."

"You talk like you wish he was some creature you could kill."

"I do," John agreed forcefully. He continued quickly before Bobby could give something akin to an outraged roar. "I know how to deal with demons, Bobby. I know how to deal with shapeshifters, skinwalkers, wendigos, spirits. I can shoot a gun and use a knife and spit out exorcisms without blinking an eye. But I don't know how to deal with a... _my_ supposedly dead kid. Hell, I hardly even know how to take care of Dean and Sam, let alone this… Harry."

He swallowed.

"I just... honestly, I don't know."

Bobby was silent for several minutes. Then he gave a very long, weary sigh.

"I hope you learn, John. I really hope you learn. For his sake."

* * *

Something woke John up in the middle of the night.

He didn't exactly hear anything. Bobby's place was fairly secluded, with only one lonely road passing by its gates. The crickets chirped loudly and he was deciding that it been his imagination when he heard the distinct squeak of the front door.

He was on his feet in an instant, knife in hand (it had been under his pillow – sue him, he was a wary man). Fortunately he'd slept on the couch; if anyone was planning on breaking into the house, they have to go through him in order to reach the others.

The squeak of the door was the only sound. He didn't hear any telltale creaks afterwards and he wondered suddenly if the intruder had just left. He knew from prior experience that you couldn't walk two steps in Bobby's house without making some sort of noise.

He dodged a stack of books that had definitely not been there before and took a quick glance through the window. A small, lumpy form was traversing the lot.

It was quite an unmistakable form, and he felt a mixture of anger and relief as he stuffed his knife back into his waistband and strode out.

His stealth skills had greatly improved over the years and he caught up with no trouble. He grabbed one of the lump's arms and yanked it backwards. It gave a frightened squeak.

"Agh!"

John sighed and eyed him severely.

"Sam, what the hell are you doing out here at this time of night?"

Sam dropped the pack he was carrying.

"Dad! I... um... I forgot something in the car. I was just gonna... get it," he finished lamely.

"I have the keys," John said wearily. He held up a hand as Sam started to give more excuses. "Come on, no fibbing. Out with it."

Sam flushed.

"I was running away," he said defiantly.

John felt a brief touch of panic (what might have happened to him had he succeeded?), but it was quickly replaced by amusement. His lips twitched.

"Why were you running away?"

"'Cause I didn't wanna get a whaling," Sam told him honestly.

John grimaced as he remembered the little issue he hadn't yet addressed.

"Listen, son. Don't run away from your pro..." he halted abruptly, feeling rather hypocritical. "I'll let you off easy this time, but it had better not happen again," he warned, hoping Sam had missed his little slip-up. "You're grounded for two weeks. No TV. And you have to go running with Dean, two miles every morning."

"But _Dad_..."

"No buts," John interrupted sharply. "You won't get a second chance, Sam. You're just lucky this time."

Sam looked crestfallen.

"All right, get inside. And take your backpack with you. No more running away, you hear me?"

Sam nodded.

"Yessir."

"Okay."

John watched Sam scramble back to the house. He was thankful for having stopped him in time. He hadn't gone through life without making enemies, and if Sam had been on his own, countless evil creatures – both men and monsters – could have easily kidnapped or hurt or even killed him.

It was a while before he went inside. The night was warm and he was too wide awake to go back to bed anyway. But when he did, something made him go to the little upstairs hall bedroom first. He paused in the doorway.

Sam was asleep already on the bottom bunk, twisted in some strange position that he could somehow wake up from without cramps. John stepped into the room as quietly as he could and looked over the rail at the thin, huddled figure up on top.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

And he was. For more reasons than one.

* * *

 **Review!**


	13. Chapter 13

**Whoa, it's actually been quite a while since I last posted. Sorry, I went on vacation and I had homework to complete and stuff like that. By the way, I'm awfully sorry but it appears like a lot of you think that John intends to reform. I apologize, but where's the fun if there isn't any conflict?**

* * *

Sam could feel something pressing around and suffocating him. He kicked out against it irritably, and his foot slammed into something that was rock hard. He woke with a yelp and stared about the room in confusion, nursing his wounded appendage.

It was clearly late morning from the angle at which the sunlight was slanting, and his bunk was directly in its path, which accounted for the oppressive feeling. He swung his feet over the side of the bed and promptly jumped back.

"Ow!"

He inspected the bottom of his foot again and wrinkled his nose at the splinter deeply imbedded in his skin. He wished Bobby hadn't used unfinished wood when he'd made the bunk beds. Clambering to his feet, this time markedly careful, he limped to the bathroom and rummaged in the cluttered drawers for tweezers. There were none.

"Dean?"

He pushed open Dean's door cautiously. Dean didn't look up from the slip of paper he was reading. Sam approached him curiously and climbed onto the creaky cot. He peered over his shoulder and squinted at the close, messy handwriting that covered the page. Dean kept reading, much longer than it should have taken him to read such a short missive. Sam tried to decipher the rough hand but gave up after his foot gave an indignant throb. He started to bounce against Dean's shoulder insistently.

"I need help, Deeeeean, I need help."

"Wait a minute, Sam, I'm busy," Dean mumbled, his gaze not straying from the words.

Sam leaned closer to his ear.

"No, you're not," he hissed, watching with pleasure as Dean jerked away from his ticklish breath.

"Fine, what is it?"

Sam proffered his injured foot wordlessly.

"You know how to use tweezers, Sam," Dean told him, annoyed.

"They're gone. I looked."

Dean sighed.

"All right, then. Give me your foot."

He stuffed the paper under his covers. Sam watched with interest and wondered why he was being so secretive.

"It's stuck in there kinda deep. What'd you do to it, idiot?"

"I hit it against the bed," Sam said, placidly ignoring the insult.

Dean rolled his eyes.

"That's stupid."

"It was hot," Sam protested. "I thought it... Ow, Dean, that hurt! It's bleeding!"

"Don't be a wuss. Go wash it in the sink."

Sam eyed the droplets of blood.

"Okay."

When he got back, Dean was reading his paper again.

"What's that?" Sam asked.

Dean tore his eyes away from it.

"Nothing," he said defensively.

"It is so something."

"Is not."

"Is so."

"Forget it, Sam."

"Fine. Grouch. I'm gonna see what Dad and Uncle Bobby are doing."

"You can't," Dean called after him.

Feeling rather confused, Sam trotted back to the bedroom.

"Why not?" he queried.

"Dad's gone," said Dean, bluntly.

Sam stared.

"No, he isn't."

"Oh, don't start that again," Dean exclaimed angrily. He threw the paper – letter – about halfway across the room so that it fluttered to the ground near Sam's feet. "Read that. He said so."

Sam picked it up and held it gingerly.

"I can't, Dean. It's too small. Can you tell me what it says?"

"I told you already. He left it by my bed. He's gone again to find a job and I have to stay home and watch you because I hurt my back."  
Sam's eyes prickled suddenly.

"Oh," he said, not knowing what else he should say.

He placed the letter on Dean's dresser and stared at it uncertainly for several long moments.

"Well," he said finally, brightly. "I'll go see if Uncle Bobby made breakfast. I'm hungry."

* * *

Unbeknownst to John, Harry had had difficulty falling asleep. When he did, he'd had horrible dreams about being alone and being chased by hooded men. He'd woken up with a start moments before John entered the room, and he'd heard him. He'd been frozen, not daring to move a muscle until long after John had exhaled heavily and trudged out of the room, and then he wondered why he'd apologized.

He _had_ formulated a tentative hope that he would be able to form some semblance of a bond with his father, so it was a nasty surprise when he woke up early and found the Impala gone. Bobby was drinking black coffee and reading a book at the dining room table – a book that he slammed closed when Harry entered the room – and he hadn't said much, although his jaw tightened.

Harry snuck some glances out the window (stealthily, or so he thought as Bobby was facing the other way), and thought that John Winchester had perhaps simply moved the car.

"Mr. Singer..."

"Bobby," Bobby grunted, scraping some butter onto toast and handing it to him on a plate.

"Bobby. Where's..." he paused, unsure of what he should call his father. He didn't feel comfortable calling him "Dad." Fortunately Bobby conveniently knew what he was trying to say.

"Your dad's gone off," he said gruffly. "He'll be back in a week or so."

A week or so! Harry took a bite of toast to cover his silence.

"Is he doing the same thing as he was last time?"

"You learn fast, kiddo," Bobby told him, not looking very happy about that.

"What exactly... I mean," Harry added hurriedly, "I'm not trying to pry, but what exactly does he do? Are there many jobs that require people to leave for several weeks at a time?"

To his surprise, Bobby actually looked amused.

"No, there aren't many jobs like his. I'd go as far as to say it's pretty unique, kid."

He didn't volunteer any more information, something that Harry was finding to be unusually common in this queer patchwork family. He chewed the rest of his toast thoughtfully, unconsciously kicking his legs against the leg of his chair.

Sam came about half an hour later, looking very cheerful. Harry watched him closely and was a little startled to see nothing amiss in his expression.

"Can I have some milk, Uncle Bobby?" Suddenly Sam's face brightened even more. He leaned against the counter and pulled his foot to his chest with effort, turning it outwards. "Look, my foot is bleeding! Dean pulled a splinter out."

Bobby stared at his foot gravely.

"It is bleeding, ain't it?"

"Yep," Sam bubbled, not looking at all perturbed; he actually looked rather proud.

He plopped down on the chair next to Harry and slurped at his milk happily.

"Your daddy left this morning," Bobby said abruptly.

"I know," Sam said calmly. "Dean got a note from him."

"Did he?" Bobby asked sharply.

"Yeah, and Dean said he wanted a peanut butter and jelly sandwich."

"Well, help yourself, boy, I ain't your servant."

* * *

It was about a week later that Bobby told them that he was busy and kicked them out of the house. The day was warm and breezy, and Sam was eager to show Harry around the yard (yet again, but Harry was just glad that Sam seemed to really enjoy his company).

"Keep an eye on the kid," Bobby had told Harry, taking him to the side briefly while Sam was absorbed in his cereal. "He's prone to accidents and there's lots of rusty metal out there."

The enormity of the responsibility had especially weighed on Harry's shoulders because he'd never been in charge of anyone before. He found soon enough that Sam was energetic but obedient, something that Harry suspected could be attributed to his father... their father, he corrected himself.

Sam begged him to play hide-and-seek tag, so he acquiesced although he was more interested in studying the various types of old cars that were littered around the lot in rusty piles.

He had always had that streak in him. While the other boys at his foster home had been interested in either bullying or video games or pranking, he had liked to crawl under the hedge by the road and just watch the cars that whizzed by on the winding road. He'd often imagined himself in possession of a retro car with fins or an old muscle car and had been secretly thrilled to see the Winchesters' Impala. Once a friend of Mrs. Kensington (an attorney, he vaguely remembered) had driven up in a beautiful Jaguar – an Opalescent Silver Blue E-type from 1968 – that he'd admired from afar but hadn't dared to touch.

He clambered up onto the hood of an old Ford pick-up to gain a better vantage point. Sam was nowhere to be seen. He stood there for several moments, feeling the breeze sweep around him peacefully, but a loud yell and a crash startled him. He spun around, trying to find the direction from which it came, and slipped to the ground with a thud. It was clearly Sam's and he felt a thrill of panic as he scrambled to his feet and ran towards the far end of the yard.

One of the cars had tipped drunkenly and Sam was sprawled on the ground with his eyes half-closed and his leg twisted under him. Harry halted in horror, but it wasn't because of Sam's predicament.

There was a nightmarish figure bowling towards him, its skin white and its hair raggedly cut. Then he realized that it wasn't aiming for him. It was reaching out for Sam, with horrible, mottled, green-veined fingers.

Harry grasped unseeingly at the ground around him and his fingers closed around something cold and hard (he discovered later that it was exhaust pipe). He yanked it up and swung at the hideous specter. It seemed to stumble away from them, and Harry took advantage of its confusion and leapt forward to drag Sam away from it.

The thing recovered and looked much angrier. Harry could feel his legs trembling as he propped Sam's unconscious form against an old car door and huddled next to him, holding the exhaust pipe in front of them protectively.

"Go away!" His voice trembled and he wished that someone – anyone, even Dean, who seemed to hate him – would come out.

It had long, long fingernails. Sharp fingernails that gripped his wrist and punctured the skin. He cried out in pain and tried to pull away, but that only made them dig deeper.

And then something ripped the thing away from him. There was a blinding flash of light as he scrambled towards Sam and buried his face in his little brother's hair, feeling weak and utterly terrified. He held on to Sam tightly.

 _I'm not going to let you go, I'm not going to! I'm going to keep you safe!_

"Sam," he croaked, sobbing. "Sam, wake up."

"Your brother is all right."

Harry turned to face this new adversary, gripping his bleeding forearm. His eyes clung to the limp figure of his attacker, and then they were drawn to the grave man that stood before him. Harry stiffened.

"Who are you?" he asked shakily.

The man frowned.

"I am your..." he paused. "I suppose you could say... guardian. There's no need to be afraid. I'm not here to harm you."

"I have a guardian?"

"Yes."

Harry stared at him uncertainly. He seemed sincere enough, but he was strange. He didn't act quite right.

"Um... thank you, I guess."

The man acknowledged his thanks with a brief incline of his head, and then he disappeared along with the body of the monster, leaving Harry gaping at empty air.

"Harry, what the hell happened? I heard you yelling all the way from the house."

Harry snapped out of his daze as Bobby sprinted towards him, holding a shotgun. His mind raced for a moment as he searched for an explanation. They would never believe him if he told them about the green-veined monster and the mysterious man.

"Sam fell," he told Bobby, his voice still a little shaky. "We were playing hide and seek, and he fell."

As he spoke, Dean came limping up several yards behind, also holding a gun. Harry wondered briefly why they had so many weapons on hand before he caught Dean's eye. Dean had clearly heard the tail end of his explanation and there was something in his expression that made Harry swallow in discomfort and wonder what exactly he knew.

* * *

 **Review, guys! I'll bet y'all can guess who the newest character is. If not, you'll find out later!**


	14. Chapter 14

**Aaaaaand guess who's back! I wasn't gone for long this time, was I?**

 **By the way, for SOME STRANGE REASON people seem to like this story better than my other HP/Spn crossover. I'm flattered, guys, I really am, but I do wonder. I myself consider _Vessel_ to be better (or that could just be because I have a much more detailed plot laid out, but still). I'm not saying - I'm not even considering - abandoning this one, but please take a look at _Vessel_ as well if you haven't already!**

 **Many grateful thanks to white collar black wolf, Child of Music and Imagination, Zaidee, Shebajay, Akayuki Novak, PrincessAnime8, PandasWearGlasses, godess bubbles, SaiyukiLover232, Von, Guest, Kittens Kat, and lunaz for your marvelous reviews! More today, please (not so hint hint)?**

 **And now, on with the show!**

* * *

"He's hiding something," said Bobby firmly, taking a sip of his coffee.

Dean toyed with his pistol and pretended to examine it closely. He knew what Bobby said was true. He'd known ever since he'd seen Harry, still clutching Sam in the yard. Harry had looked far too white-faced and traumatized for a boy who had seen a simple accident.

"He looked pretty scared," Bobby pushed.

Dean stuffed the gun into the back of his pants.

"All right, Bobby," he said tiredly. "I get what you're trying to tell me. I'll go talk to him."

He walked up the creaky wooden stairs, knowing full well that Harry was in the bathroom behind a closed and locked door. He'd been in there for about half an hour already, and to tell the truth, Dean was actually starting to feel worried about the kid.

He lifted his hand to knock, but paused. There was the muffled sound of crying drifting through the solid wood.

"Harry?" he called. "You in there?"

There was a short scuffle.

"D... Dean?"

Dean frowned.

"Yeah, it's me. What's the matter?"

He heard a faint sniffle

"Nothing," Harry replied, his voice still muffled. "Nothing. I'm fine."

"Don't give me that crap," snapped Dean irritably. "I'm coming in."

"No!"

But Dean had already snatched the key from above the door. He threw it open quickly.

Harry stood in the middle of the bathroom rug, looking very small and forlorn, his dark hair pressed against his forehead and tears slipping slowly down his cheeks. He was clutching his arm tightly, and to Dean's alarm, blood was seeping through his white fingers.

"What the _hell_!" Dean exclaimed, blood pounding in his ears, and he was suddenly terrified, as terrified as he would be if it had been Sammy.

He grabbed Harry's arm, but gently as he didn't know the extent of his injuries. Harry gave a cry of pain and tried to pull away. Dean eased his fingers away from the wound.

There were five, deep, jagged nail marks. From the tools and bandages that lay strewn over the counter, Harry must have been trying to fix it up himself. The blood had only just begun to clot, and in his haste, Harry had torn the beginnings of the scabs, reopening the wound.

"You're an idiot," said Dean, busying himself with alcohol and clean gauze pads. "Why didn't you just ask for help?"

Harry hissed and flinched as the stinging liquid burned his open flesh. He discretely rubbed away a tear and Dean pretended not to have seen.

"I didn't..." Harry started, and halted uncertainly.

"You didn't think!" Dean exploded.

Harry bit his lip, looking suddenly exactly as young as he was. Dean took a deep breath and forced himself to remain calm.

"You could have gotten an infection. Complications. Don't you ever do this again, Harry. Now what happened?"

"I fell and scratched myself," said Harry, his voice trembling.

Dean rolled his eyes.

"Sure. That's the oldest excuse in the book. Out with it. These are nail marks. Who attacked you?"

 _I'll kill it_. But he didn't voice that thought out loud.

"I don't know."

"Come on."

"No, I don't," Harry insisted, sniffing and wiping his face carefully with his other sleeve. "It grabbed me and then I hurt my head so I don't remember anything until I woke up and Sam was hurt."

Dean looked at him suspiciously, trying to find some sign that he was lying, but he didn't know Harry's giveaways. He sighed, wrapping a final length of gauze around the ugly marks.

"All right, whatever. You're lucky nothing worse happened to you."

Harry sniffled again, wetly, and examined the bandage almost wonderingly.

"Thank you," he said, very quietly.

Dean remembered their – or really his, he realized now – earlier animosity and suddenly felt awkward.

"Forget it," he said gruffly, and hurried out.

* * *

Sam was all right. Harry was so relieved that he was happy just staring at Sam as the younger boy slept on the bunk beneath his own.

Sam had a twisted ankle and a small cut on the top of his head, but when all was said and done he was all right. Harry happily kept watching him.

Then, with a jolt, he remembered the man. Now that he thought back to it more carefully, the man hadn't really been a man, but a boy. Granted, an older boy, rather older than Dean, but certainly not near John Winchester's age. He suddenly felt profusely grateful towards him.

"Thanks, if you can hear me," he said, out loud. He half expected to see him pop in out of nowhere. "I couldn't have gotten Sam out of that without your help."

"It was nothing."

Badly startled, Harry spun around, tripping over his own legs and falling with a plop back onto Sam's bunk. He gaped at the apparition.

His self-proclaimed guardian _was_ a boy. He had shock of dark hair and glittering blue eyes, and his face was impassive. He was rather tall for the teenager he was, but appeared to have grown a great deal recently as the cuffs of his pants brushed his ankles.

"You!" Harry exclaimed. "You're the one who... the one that... Why are you here?"

The boy looked puzzled.

"You were speaking to me," he stated, as if that explained everything.

"I... I didn't think you'd..." Harry spluttered. He waved his hands helplessly. "How did you get in here?"

"I flew," said the boy, poker-faced.

"You... _flew_?"

Harry wondered faintly if this was how people felt when they were about to have a heart attack.

"Yes."

He didn't offer any further explanations.

"How?"

Although the boy's face had up until then been mostly expressionless, he was beginning to look disgruntled.

"With my wings."

"You have wings?"

The boy didn't seem to find his echo worth answering, instead approaching him and taking his bandaged arm in his hands.

"You were injured."

"Yes. But," Harry added quickly, "I'm okay now. Dean took care of it."

"I can heal you instantly."

Harry pulled his arm back, holding onto the bandage almost protectively.

"No," he said, feeling rather foolish but very determined. "It's okay. I don't want you to. The bandage works. But you can fix Sam."

The boy looked puzzled again but vaguely tolerant.

"Very well."

He pressed two fingers to Sam's head. A golden glow seemed to flow through Sam's body and then wisp out. Sam made a small, sleepy sound and turned over. Harry was startled to see revulsion on the boy's face as he straightened.

"What's the matter?"

The boy blinked at him but didn't answer.

"What are you?" Harry asked.

He just received a small, stiff smile in return, and then he was alone again in the silence of the dark room with Sam slumbering peacefully beside him.

* * *

When Bobby checked the back of Sam's head that morning, he was surprised to find absolutely nothing. There wasn't a single scar or blemish where the cut had been the day before.

But Harry looked oddly knowing.

* * *

 **So I noticed that one of you guessed Balthazar. Really, really close! I was kinda sweating when I saw that review. Just a step away! I'm sure you all know who this mysterious personage is _now_. If you don't you can PM me, I guess, but I really think you should know.**

 **Please review! I read every single one of your reviews and I'd be super grateful if you could pop even the smallest line... or lots of feedback if you have the time! Critical, complimentary, anything will do!**

 **Anyway, thanks for reading!**


	15. Chapter 15

**Sorry for the super long wait, everyone. In addition to the beginning of school and life in general, I had a massive writer's block for this story. I literally started this chapter a million times from a million points and I just _could not write it_.**

 **But let bygones be bygones. Writer's block has been overcome (I am the champion, my friends), and here is Chapter 10! Enjoy!**

* * *

When John came back, something had changed, because he headed straight out again with all three boys. Harry didn't know exactly what to think of it. For one thing, he was partly glad not to be left behind, but then it was weird to sit with his strange family, in a cool but still strange car, going towards the unknown and leaving Bobby Singer behind. He already missed Bobby and it hadn't even been an hour since they'd left.

At least he still had Peter Pan.

Dean was in the passenger seat, leaning his head against the window and staring at the never-changing scenery with bleary eyes. Everything was flat. Flat, grayish, and mostly treeless. Harry wondered suddenly if all of America was like that, or just everywhere the Winchesters frequented or visited. It wasn't exactly ugly. It was just boring. But calming, in a way. Maybe that was why Bobby had decided to live in the middle of South Dakota.

Sam was beside him in the back seat (he'd taken the one behind John – his father, and that was still an odd thought – so that he wouldn't attract as much attention from the man) and he was sleeping, his hand curled in a tight fist beneath his head and gradually getting wetter and wetter with drool. Harry wrinkled his nose in mild disgust and turned to stare at the back of John's head.

His traitorous stomach growled suddenly and he flushed in embarrassment, certain that everyone except for Sam had heard it. Silently scolding himself, he clutched his arms around his middle and tried to pretend nothing had happened.

"Hungry?"

Harry jerked his head up in surprise. It was John who had spoken.

"Um..." he couldn't think for several panicked moments. "No, sir. "

John's eyes met his in the rearview mirror and, not for the first time, he was disconcerted by their shrewdness. He flushed again.

"I'm just... I wasn't very hungry at breakfast... I didn't... I'm not _very_ hungry. I'm just... sort of."

He was wretchedly aware that he was rambling, and badly.

"Okay."

That was the extent of their interaction. John turned back to the road and Harry turned back to wondering why exactly he was here, a part of this family, at all, and why he'd been brought along this time. Why, why, why. There were too many of them.

He sighed lightly and stared at the flat, gray, treeless expanse. Telephone poles flashed by at regular intervals. Road signs at longer, irregular intervals. Lots and lots of fences. It was hypnotizing. He wasn't even aware of his eyelids beginning to droop, slipping closed...

 _A scream... a flash of green light... and he was scared... so scared..._

The Impala jerked to the right suddenly and he started, almost hitting his head against the window. They were off of the highway, on one of the little side roads that led he didn't know where. Evidently John did.

 _Where_ turned out to be _what_ , and _what_ was a little strip mall with a very crummy diner that somehow still made Harry's stomach roll and growl in anticipation. Dean looked mildly surprised as John pulled into the parking lot, but he kept his mouth shut.

The car door slammed, and it was only Harry, Dean, and a sleeping Sam in the car. The lack of Mediator Sam meant overall awkwardness. Harry shifted and rubbed his itchy, healing wrist nervously.

"How's your arm?" Dean asked.

His voice was casual, and Harry envied him that.

"Fine," he mumbled, staring at Sam's curly head.

"Make sure you keep an eye on redness and swelling. I don't need an infection to deal with. I've had to take care of enough of Sam's to last a lifetime."

"Okay," Harry said, and wondered why it was Dean's responsibility to take care of Sam's injuries. Yet another _why_ to add to the list.

Even Dean didn't seem to know quite what else to say after this exchange, and they sat in uneasy silence until Sam woke up. As always, he woke rather spectacularly. This time, his foot smashed into Harry's eye. Harry gave a yelp of pain and Sam's eyes flew open.

"Where are we?!"

Dean rolled his eyes.

"Chill, Sam. You just kicked him."

Harry was trying his best to mop up the flood of water that was currently pouring out of his right eye with his oversized sweatshirt (he hadn't any of his own, so it was a hand-me-down from Dean with "Led Zeppelin" written across the front in giant letters). Guilt immediately crossed Sam's face.

"Gee, Harry," he said contritely. "I'm sorry. Are you okay?"

"I think so."

Dean crawled to his knees and stared at the afflicted member with interest.

"You're going to get a shiner," he pronounced.

Sam looked even more guilty, if that was possible.

"Gee, Harry," he repeated, very worriedly. "I'm really, _really_ sorry. Does it hurt?"

As a matter of fact, it did hurt. In that painful way that eyes did that made it feel like they were about to pop out. But Sam's eyes were too powerful in their remorse.

"I'm good," Harry assured him.

He caught sight of John returning, holding a brown paper bag with a grease stain that spoke suspiciously of food. Harry's stomach growled again.

"You having hunger issues?" Dean queried, a hint of a smile creeping over his face.

Harry didn't deign to reply. John pulled open the door and slid inside, passing the paper bag to Dean, who promptly opened it and passed out the squashed burgers. Harry wasn't feeling very choosy, so he took his gratefully, and was surprised to find it wasn't half as terrible as it looked. Dean and Sam unwrapped and ate theirs with the mechanical motions of those who'd done the same action too many times to count. Maybe they had. Harry didn't exactly envy them that.

"We're heading to Atchison for the night," John announced, revving the engine. "It'll be about six or seven more hours, so sit tight. We won't be making many more stops, either."

The scenery was the same when they drove back out onto the highway. Flat, gray, treeless. Harry curled up against Sam, who was again sleeping, drool dripping down his chin, and decided it wasn't half bad. But his eye still throbbed.

* * *

 **Review, please! A lot of you, preferably. The majority of you would be best, of course!**


	16. Chapter 16

**The review count for this story has been boosted to over 100, with more than 300 favs and and 500 follows! Thank you so, so much, everyone! This is my first triple-digit review story! Especial thanks to toile grant, leeluluirty, Psyka, Akayuki Novak (my 100th reviewer!), alicat54, Kimpatsu no Hoseki, godess bubbles, Bl00dfox, white collar black wolf, Skendo, AJ Granger, and Sailor Pandabear for their wonderful reviews.**

 **Yet another one of my reviewers has brought to my attention certain points that I have not addressed in this story. Some will be explained in the future, but a few I am going to clarify.**

 **Firstly, is Harry magical? This question has cropped up several times in my reviews, and all I can say is that you'll have to wait and see. He's only eight (nearly nine) now, after all.**

 **Why did Dumbledore and Lupin bother to look for his family for 6-7 years? Well, this isn't a bashing** **fic and they were some of the few who were aware that he was adopted, so they're not going to begrudge the fact that he isn't related by blood to the Potters. It isn't as if the search wholly consumed their lives, either. It was simply a side goal for them, since poor Harry was stuck in a foster home although his real family was still out there.**

 **As for dates, I screwed with Harry's birthday (I will clarify that later in the story) and pushed Voldemort's attack/James and Lily's deaths a few years later. So Harry was born in the winter of 1981, which makes him a year younger than he was in the books, and was around 2-3 years old when the Potters were killed (ergo, the brief flashbacks).**

 **I'm establishing that the whole "prophecy" idea is invalidated since Voldemort only _believed_ that Harry was born in midsummer. Neville isn't an issue as this happened several years after he was born. As explained in the HP books, the prophecy only happens when those who believe in it act on it, which is why Voldemort attacked Harry. So the prophecy doesn't really apply, hardcore anyway.**

 **Harry's guardian is fairly important, and is one of the story arcs. So for that you'll have to wait and see as well. But it isn't just for dramatic effect, which I love but… no, honestly, it isn't. Well, maybe a little. But I have reasons, okay?**

 **Hope you like Chapter 16!**

* * *

"Ooh. You _do_ have a black eye."

With effort, Harry lifted the eyelid that wasn't swollen and stared up at Sam, who was peering down at him with equal parts interest and regret. The first thing that really sank into Harry's sleep-hazed mind was that the deep rumble of the Impala's engine had stopped.

"I already told you I'm fine," he murmured groggily, resisting the urge to rub his eyes.

He sat up to look outside. To his surprise, it wasn't gray and drab anymore. There were low, rolling, green hills with trees and farmhouses dotted about in neat lines. It was rather pretty, actually.

"We're in Atchison," said Sam, who had clambered beside him. He hummed the first few bars of some song that apparently included the words "Atchison," "Topeka," and "Santa Fe." "Dad's getting dinner from Seven-Eleven and Dean's in the bathroom. I got bored."

Harry rubbed his eyes absent-mindedly and was quickly reminded why he hadn't in the first place. He combed a hand briefly through his disheveled head of hair.

"Where's Atchison?"

"Kansas," Sam chirped, bouncing on the seat next to him and making the whole car shudder. "I was born here. So were you, I guess."

Harry frowned.

"In Atchison?"

Sam giggled and sat back on his haunches.

"No. In Lawrence." He suddenly looked serious. "We don't ever go there cause that's where Mom died. I don't remember her but Dean doesn't like to talk about her. Do you remember her?"

Harry shivered and burrowed deeper into his hoodie.

"I don't know," he admitted. "I think... maybe just a little. But not really."

"Can you tell me?" Sam begged, drawing up his legs to his chin and wiggling his toes expectantly. His worn socks had several holes in them and he unconsciously wrapped his fingers around them.

Harry swallowed and tried to recreate his memory for Sam.

"She was really pretty," he said quietly. Sam stared at him with wide, intrigued eyes. "Her hair was blond, like Dean's, but long, and she had a nice voice. She used to sing 'Hey, Jude.'"

"Dean sang that to me when I was really small," Sam put in eagerly, then added sadly, "but he doesn't anymore."

Harry nodded. That sounded like Dean.

"And she smelled nice, too," he said thoughtfully. "Like flowers. And mint. Nice things. She smelled like... like a mother, I guess."

Sam screwed up his mouth perplexedly.

"What's that like?"

"It's hard to explain," Harry told him, his chest deflating a little bit. He didn't know himself. It was more a half-forgotten feeling than anything else.

"I like her," Sam announced happily and obliviously, sticking his finger through one of his sock holes. He sniffed and rubbed his nose. "Oh, look, there's Dean."

Dean slipped into the passenger seat, bringing a gust of cool, autumn air.

"I have to go to the bathroom," Sam told him.

Dean groaned.

" _Sam_."

"What?" Sam asked indignantly. "I do."

"Why didn't you tell me before?"

"Because I didn't have to then," Sam explained patiently. "I'll be real quick."

"Fine."

Dean grumpily shoved the door open and cuffed Sam's head as the smaller boy climbed out. Sam scowled at him half-heartedly, and turned back to grin at Harry.

"You coming?"

Harry didn't want to stay in the car by himself, so he nodded and followed them out. He ended up waiting outside for them, perching on a cold metal handrail and staring out at the darkening landscape.

"You seem prone to injury."

The deep voice directly behind him almost made him fall off the rail. Instead he twisted his head around to stare at his visitor. The boy's clear blue eyes looked rather long-suffering.

"How did you..." Harry started in confusion, and stopped. "Oh, right. Wings."

The boy nodded. His clothes were the same as before; too-short slacks, a dark blue sweater that was unraveling at the hem, and scuffed loafers. But now something that had only vaguely registered in Harry's mind before was glaringly obvious. He did fall off the rail this time.

"You have wings!" he exclaimed, staring at the blueish-black appendages in awe and shock. "Like... _wings_! Real wings!"

The boy looked startled. It was the first genuine expression Harry had seen on his face.

"You can see them."

It was phrased as a statement, but sounded more like a question.

"Yes." Harry paused uncertainly. "Is that... weird?"

"It is unusual. Most humans are unable to perceive any aspect of my true form."

"Humans as in... you're not one?"

The boy inclined his head in affirmation. Harry simply blinked at him. Not human. He seemed to be encountering a great number of nonhumans ever since joining his new, or old, or whatever it was, family.

"Do you want me to heal you or are you still opposed to any such alleviations of minor discomfort?"

Was that... sarcasm? Harry couldn't tell. He didn't look like he was trying to be sarcastic, but it would almost be stranger if he was sincere.

"No," Harry decided. "I mean," he added quickly, "thanks and all, but they might think it was strange if my eye suddenly turns out to be all right. Bobby was already suspicious about Sam."

It occurred to him that he might not know who Bobby was.

"I understand. And I am aware of Robert Singer's existence."

Harry's eyes widened.

"Did you just read my..."

The muffled flush of the toilet reminded him that Sam and Dean would be coming out soon. He didn't want them to see this inhuman guardian of his (he had a feeling they wouldn't take very kindly to him), but there was still one more question he had to ask.

"Who are you?"

He gazed on in wonder as the boy's eyes began to glow brighter and brighter blue.

"My name is Castiel." His huge wings extended gloriously behind him, spreading like a benevolent shadow over the entire parking lot, and he smiled, stiffly and briefly. "I am your guardian angel."

And then he vanished, just as the door of the bathroom was yanked open and Sam and Dean stepped out. They halted at the sight of Harry, sprawled on the uneven asphalt.

"What the hell are you doing?" Dean demanded, with a confused wrinkle on his forehead.

Still shell-shocked, all Harry could do was shake his head.

"I don't know... I really don't. I fell."

* * *

Harry filed after the others, his hands feeling awkward and useless. Dean carried a large backpack (it was lying flat across his back though, so Harry didn't think it had much in it), and John held a very large duffle bag that clanked with every step he took. Even Sam was clutching onto the plastic bag of peanut butter, jelly, and white bread from Seven-Eleven.

The motel room wasn't very clean, and it smelled suspiciously like rotten milk mixed with a healthy amount of cigarette smoke. The bedsheets were brown, hopefully not to disguise _things_ that might be lurking on them. Sam flung himself onto the far bed with a groan of relief.

"My legs are really tired."

Dean chuckled.

"You've been sitting all day, bitch."

"Dean, language," John rebuked him, automatically.

"Jerk," Sam shot back, seeming displeased at his father for fighting his battles.

" _Sam_."

John's voice held a warning note. Harry curled up on the armchair near the window and stared around himself curiously. The paint was peeling from the walls in dirty strips and there was a single rusty deadbolt on the door. It looked like it was about to snap.

"I'm going out," said John, his back turned to them as he rummaged through his bag. Harry tried to look past him to see what was inside, but his broad shoulders completely hid its contents. "Dean, come here."

They held a whispered conference and Harry shot a questioning look at Sam, who shrugged and kicked his shoes off. Harry filed it in his mind in the ever-growing pile of information that he called "Weird Winchester Normalities," along with motels, diners, everlasting road trips, squashed burgers, holes in socks, Latin expletives, mysteriously clanking duffle bags, knives, guns, and extreme paranoia.

John left. They ate peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches for dinner and then Harry and Sam tried to coax the old, bulky television set into working. Dean sat on the side, rubbing his finger over the handle of his revolver, and watched their fruitless endeavors in silence.

The room started to get really cold as it grew darker, so Dean made them go to bed early. He stayed up, staring at the feebly bolted door across from him. The way he placed himself almost made Harry think that he was supposed to be a protective barrier between them and... what?

John was still gone by the time he managed to fall asleep.

* * *

 **Castiel, guys. Castiel. Of course it was him, as most of you guessed. CASTIEL! I love Castiel. And he was such a BAMF in Season 4 (of course his hair was awesomest there, too).**

 **Please review!**


	17. Chapter 17

**Man. Guys, I am so, SO sorry to make you wait this long. You probably thought I'd abandoned this, but my problem was a monstrous writers' block, besides being rather busy, of course. I'm telling you, it was a nightmare, and to make matters worse I'd already started the chapter, but I wasn't satisfied, and I had no motivation to rewrite it (which is literally the hardest thing in the world to make yourself do). But I did it! And here it is! I hope you enjoy.**

* * *

Dammit. It was freakin' _hard_ to stay awake. Dean rubbed his eyes vigorously and swallowed the yawn that was growing in his throat. Stay awake, stay awake, stay _awake_. If only he had thought to get a cup of coffee before beginning his nighttime vigil.

He stood abruptly and shoved his gun into the back of his pants (it sent a ridiculous puff of pride through his chest because that was what John always did). Sam and Harry were smothered in a pile of blankets on their bed, and Dean eyed his and his father's shared one skeptically. There didn't seem to be much room.

Bed looked very inviting nonetheless, and he took an inadvertent step towards it before remembering that he was supposed to be guarding the kids, not lazing around like a good-for-nothing. Sighing, he rubbed his nose and resignedly settled back into the wobbly chair, which was so hard that his butt had already fallen asleep. He wiggled a little, searching fruitlessly for a more comfortable position, and found none.

Frankly, he was starting to feel worried. John usually wasn't gone this long, and he...

Someone rapped loudly on the door. The knocks were sloppy and uneven, but there were seven of them, and seven being the agreed number, Dean eagerly opened the door.

" _Christo_ ," he said, and he saw the corner of John's lips twitch. Of course, by now it would have been too late to protect himself even if his father _had_ been possessed, but... well, principles.

Then he saw how deathly white John's face was, and how his jaw was tight and his teeth clenched together. Not good. In fact, he would go so far as to say things were pretty bad if even John had trouble hiding the pain.

"Dad!" he exclaimed, too loudly for his sleeping brothers, and pulled the door open further with a trembling hand. "What the hell happened to you?"

John motioned for him to close the door behind him, and sank into the chair he had vacated with a sigh half of relief and half of discomfort.

"I'm fine," he grunted, waving his not-bloody hand at Dean. "I let the bastard get two inches too close."

"Did it bite you?" Dean asked, remembering to keep his voice low this time. Hopefully he hadn't woken the two kids up. He dug into the duffle for needle and thread.

"No."

"You sure?"

"Yeah, I'm sure. I'm okay."

This was the absolute worst – and inevitable – part of all hunts. Dean wished sometimes that he could be one of the boys who were sleeping when John came back.

"I'll stitch you up."

"No, I can do it."

Alarmed, Dean spun around on his heel and almost dropped the needle.

"But, Dad, you're..."

"I said I can do it, Dean!" John snapped, picking at the fabric of his stained shirt.

"Fine," Dean muttered rebelliously, and added quickly, "Sir."

John barely noticed the slip, already sliding the curved needle under his skin. Dean cringed and ducked under the covers. As he did so, he saw a tousled head disappearing back under the covers. He frowned sleepily. Harry, probably. He'd have to teach the kid certain things about privacy and discretion later... much later. Right now sleep was the most... important...

* * *

Harry stared at the lumpy sleeve of John's shirt with barely disguised fascination. So it _hadn't_ all been a dream last night. He almost caught John's eye in the mirror and guiltily looked away, gazing out the window of the Impala at the flat landscape they were driving past. Again. They hadn't stopped long in Atchison.

He guessed this part of the United States didn't vary much as far as scenery went. It consisted mostly of empty fields and farms and occasional small towns, and little else. He nudged a drowsy Sam, whose head was dropping periodically to his chest, and the younger boy started awake.

"Are we going back to Bobby's?" Harry whispered in his ear, hoping the rumble of the motor would hide his voice. Sam shook his head and yawned widely before whispering back.

"Nah, I don't think so. Visiting Uncle Bobby is for special occasions. Most of the time we just hop back and forth between little towns."

"Oh." He felt a little disappointed at that. "So where to next?"

"Monroe, Arkansas."

Dean's unexpected contribution made them both jump. He shot them a grin over the top of his styrofoam cup of coffee.

"What? You're not talking very quietly."

"Give me that," John grumbled, snatching the cup out of his hands. Apparently it hadn't been meant for Dean. Endlessly energetic, Sam bounced on his seat for what Harry suspected was the thousandth time.

"Hey, Dad, you think we can stay in a real hotel this time? You know, the kind where they have good TVs and room service and stuff?"

"I'm not made out of money, Sam," John replied, mildly.

"Aw, shucks. Come on, Dad."

Sam didn't sound overly disappointed. It sounded like a fairly frequent exchange between the two of them.

"I'm hungry," said Harry suddenly, surprising himself. He had had a degree of trouble communicating with the older members of his family ever since he'd first met them, but now it appeared to be wearing off.

"You're always hungry, you twerp."

Somehow, Dean made what could easily have been disparaging words sound more like... friendliness. Was it some sort of family thing? He called Sam a jerk in a rather kind way, so Harry supposed it was.

"I didn't eat much for breakfast. Sorry," he added quickly, for after all John was not made out of money. But they bought a bag of Cinnabon at their next gas stop.

* * *

"You've been wondering about the scratch I had on my arm last night, haven't you?"

The question, offered out of the blue, startled Harry, and he whipped his head around to stare at John. His stomach rolled at the distinct feeling of foreboding and an inexplainable guilt. Which was silly. He couldn't have helped waking up, and they had been fairly loud, and... and... John was still looking at him because he hadn't answered yet.

"Wha-at?" he inquired eloquently, tripping over his own feet, and concluded that his confusion could have been a perfectly natural reaction. Scratch was an understatement.

"You woke up when I got back," said his mysteriously all-knowing father, slinging his duffle higher on his uninjured shoulder. "I know Dean saw you, although I can't imagine why he didn't say something. You must have thought up some explanations. I'm asking you what they were."

Harry glanced around them, but Sam had already gone with Dean into the motel room. John evidently had some strategy to his actions.

"Um... you fell?" and he winced internally.

"I'm going to give you some credit and I'm not going to answer that. Next hypothesis?"

Harry grabbed wildly for one of the many he'd formulated.

"A zombie?"

"No." John's eyes were shrewd and Harry felt inexplicably nervous. "You've got a lively imagination, Harry, jumping to that instead of something more obvious like a wolf, or a bear, or even a drunk man with a knife."

Stupid mistake number two. Harry's inner self winced again and chided him.

"I was joking, of course," he floundered, and scratched the back of his sleep-tousled head with a uncertain hand. John was an enigma, and a powerful one in his life, so if he didn't step carefully he could find himself on the nearest plane ride back to England and life in a foster home. The idea was not appealing.

"Mm. The fact is..."

His father stopped abruptly and shifted the bag on his shoulder again, frowning into the distance.

"What?"

John shook his head thoughtfully, almost at himself.

"Nothing."

He fell back to his habitual silence and Harry wondered – suspected, really – what the unspoken end of his sentence would have been. His life was getting _really_ strange.

* * *

 **So there you have it. All of Chapter 17. I'll update as soon as possible, and definitely not in several months (again, apologies!).**

 **Please, please review. Come on, there are over 300 and 600 of you favorit-ers and followers… surely most of you can manage to leave a line? Thanks!**


	18. Chapter 18

**Hello y'all!**

 **No chapter today. I'm ever so sorry.**

 **I am officially at an impasse with this story. Most of my writing time I spend with AFITR or Supernatural one shots/drabbles, and the rest of the time is taken by that unavoidable thing called Life. I'm not abandoning it yet, but there's a very long road yet to go, and it's pretty intimidating to think about, let alone plan and write. Additionally, the first few chapters are crap, so I want to rewrite them. Except I don't. I'm lazy. Again, I'm sorry.** **Ideas are always welcome, especially if they regard shortening the story (I was originally planning to take it all the way to the Apocalypse, aka S5 of Spn).**

 **Basically what this all adds up to is this: Reunion is on a temporary but indefinite hiatus. Once I finish AFITR, I'll have more time to spend on it, but I also have some multi-chaptered Supernatural fics in the works that might possibly take priority.**

 **Thank you so much for your comments, support, love, etc. and I promise I will begin work on this again ASAP.**

 **Sincerely,**

 **yankeebornandbred**


End file.
